'Your brother?'
'Not only that, My job. When I was on duty yesterday afternoon, I got a fighter pilot on the RT. Badly shot up in a dogfight over the North Sea. His Hurricane was on fire and he was trapped in the cockpit. He screamed all the way down.'
'It started out by being a nice day,' Kane said. 'Suddenly it isn't.'
He reached for the steering wheel and she put her hand on his impulsively. 'I'm sorry - really I am.'
'That's okay.'
Her expression changed to one of puzzlement and she raised his hand. 'What's wrong with your fingers? Several of them are crooked. Your nails... Good God, Harry, what happened to your nails?'
'Oh, that?' he said. 'Somebody pulled them out for me.'
She stared at him in horror. 'Was it - was it the Germans, Harry?' she whispered.
'No.' He switched on the engine. 'As a matter of fact they were French, but working for the other side, of course. It's one of life's more distressing discoveries, or so I've found, that it very definitely takes all sorts to make a world.'
He smiled crookedly and drove away.
.
On the evening of the same day in his private room in the nursing home at Aston, Ben Garvald took a decided turn for the worse. He lost consciousness at six o'clock. His condition was not discovered for another hour. It was eight before Doctor Das arrived in answer to the nurse's urgent phone call, ten past when Reuben walked in and discovered the situation.
He had been back to Fogarty's on Ben's instructions, with a hearse and a coffin obtained from the funeral firm which was another of the Garvald brothers' many business ventures. The unfortunate Jackson had just been disposed of at a local private crematorium in which they also had an interest, not the first time, by any means, that they had got rid of an inconvenient corpse in this way.
Ben's face was bathed in sweat and he groaned, moving from side to side. There was a faint unpleasant odour like rotten meat, Reuben caught a glimpse of the knee as Das lifted the dressing. He turned away, fear rising into his mouth like bile.
'Ben?' he said.
Garvald opened his eyes. For a moment he didn't seem to recognize his brother and then he smiled. 'You got it done, Reuben boy? Did you get rid of him?'
'Ashes to ashes, Ben.'
Garvald closed his eyes and Reuben turned to Das. 'How bad is it?'
'Very bad. There is a chance of gangrene here. I warned him.'
'Oh, my God,' Reuben said. 'I knew he should have gone to hospital.'
Ben Garvald's eyes opened and he glared feverishly. He reached for his brother's wrist. 'No hospital, you hear me? What do you want to do? Give those bleeding coppers the opening they've been looking for for years?'
He fell back, eyes closed again. Das said, 'There is one chance. There is a drug called penicillin. You have heard of it?'
'Sure I have. They say it'll cure anything. Fetches a fortune on the black market.'
'Yes, it has quite miraculous results in cases like this. Can you get hold of some? Now - tonight?'
'If it's in Birmingham, you'll have it within an hour.' Reuben walked to the door and turned. 'But if he dies, then you go with him, son. That's a promise.'
He went out and the door swung behind him.
.
At the same moment in Landsvoort the Dakota lifted off the runway and turned out to sea. Gericke didn't waste any time. Simply took her straight up to a thousand feet, banked to starboard and dropped down towards the coast. Inside, Steiner and his men made ready. They were all dressed in full British paratroop gear, all weapons and equipment stowed in suspension bags in the British manner. 'All right,' Steiner called.
They all stood and clipped their static lines to the anchor line cable, each man checking the comrade in front of him, Steiner seeing to Harvey Preston who was last in line. The Englishman was trembling. Steiner could feel it as he tightened his straps for him.
'Fifteen seconds,' he said, 'So you haven't got long - understand? And get this straight, all of you. If you're going to break a leg. do it here. Not in Norfolk.'
There was a general laugh and he walked to the front of the line where Ritter Neumann checked his straps. Steiner slid back the door as the red light blinked above his head and there was the sudden roaring of the wind.
In the cockpit, Gericke throttled back and went in low. The tide was out. the wide, wet lonely beaches pale in the moonlight, stretching into infinity. Bohmler, beside him, was concentrating on the altimeter. 'Now!' Gericke cried and Bohmler was ready for him.
The green light flared above Steiner's head, he slapped Ritter on the shoulder. The young Oberleutnant went out followed by the entire stick, very fast, ending with Brandt. As for Preston, he stood there, mouth gaping, staring out into the night.
'Go on!' Steiner cried and grabbed for his shoulder.
Preston pulled away, holding on to a steel strut to support himself. He shook his head, mouth working. 'Can't!' he finally managed to say. 'Can't do it!'
Steiner struck him across the face back-handed, grabbed him by the right arm and slung him towards the open door. Preston hung there, bracing himself with both hands. Steiner put a foot in his rear and shoved him out into space. Then he clipped on to the anchor line and went after him.
.
When you jump at four hundred feet there isn't really time to be frightened. Preston was aware of himself somersaulting, the sudden jerk, the slap of the 'chute catching air and then he was swinging beneath the dark khaki umbrella.
It was fantastic. The moon pale on the horizon, the flat wet sands, the creamy line of the surf. He could see the E-boat by the sand pier quite clearly, men watching and further along the beach a line of collapsed parachutes as the others gathered them in. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of Steiner above him and to the left and then seemed to be going in very fast.
The supply bag, swinging twenty feet below at the end of a line clipped to his waist, hit the sand with a solid thump warning him to get ready. He went in hard, too hard, or so it seemed, rolled and miraculously found himself on his feet, the parachute billowing up like some pale flower in the moonlight.
He moved in quickly to deflate it as he had been taught and suddenly paused there on his hands and knees, a sense of overwhelming joy, of personal power sweeping through him of a kind he had never known in his life before.
'I did it!' he cried aloud. 'I showed the bastards. I did it! I did it! I did it!'
.
In the bed at the nursing home in Aston, Ben Garvald lay very still. Reuben stood at the end and waited as Doctor Das probed for a heartbeat with his stethoscope.
'How is he?' Reuben demanded.
'Still alive, but only just.'
Reuben made his decision and acted on it. He grabbed Das by the shoulder and shoved him at the door. 'You get an ambulance round here quick as you like. I'm having him in hospital.'
'But that will mean the police, Mr Garvald,' Das pointed out.
'Do you think I care?' Reuben said hoarsely. 'I want him alive, understand? He's my brother. Now get moving!'
He opened the door and pushed Das out. When he turned back to the bed there were tears in his eyes. 'I promise you one thing, Ben,' he said brokenly. 'I'll have that little Irish bastard for this if it's the last thing I do.'
13
At forty-five. Jack Rogan had been a policeman for nearly a quarter of a century - a long time to work a three-shift system and be disliked by the neighbours. But that was the policeman's lot, and only to be expected, as he frequently pointed out to his wife.
It was nine-thirty on Tuesday 2 November when he entered his office at Scotland Yard. By rights, he shouldn't have been there at all. Having spent a lengthy night at Muswell Hill interrogating members of an Irish club, he was entitled to a few hours in bed, but there was a little paperwork to clear up first.
He'd just settled down at his desk when there was a knock at the door and his assistant, Detective Inspector Fergus Grant, entered. Grant was the younge
r son of a retired Indian Army colonel. Winchester and Hendon Police College. One of the new breed who were supposed to revolutionize the Force. In spite of this, he and Rogan got on well together.
Rogan put up a hand defensively, 'Fergus, all I want to do is sign a few letters, have a cup of tea and go home to bed. Last night was hell.'
'I know, sir,' Grant said. 'It's just that we've had a rather unusual report in from the City of Birmingham Police. I thought it might interest you."
'You mean me in particular or the Irish Section?'
'Both.'
'All right.' Rogan pushed back his chair and started to fill his pipe from a worn, leather pouch. I'm not in the mood for reading so tell me about it.'
'Ever hear of a man called Garvald, sir?'
Rogan paused. 'You mean Ben Garvald? He's been bad news for years. Biggest villain in the Midlands.'
'He died early this morning. Gangrene as the result of a gunshot wound. The hospital got their hands on him too late.'
Rogan struck a match. 'There are people I know who might say that was the best bit of news they'd heard in years, but how does it affect us?'
'He was shot in the right kneecap, by an Irishman.'
Rogan stared at him. 'That is interesting. The statutory IRA punishment when someone tries to cross you.' He cursed as the match in his left hand burned down to his fingers and dropped it. 'What was his name, this Irishman?'
'Murphy, sir.'
'It would be. Is there more?'
'You could say that,' Grant told him. 'Garvald had a brother who's so cut up about his death that he's singing like a bird. He wants friend Murphy nailing to the door.'
Rogan nodded. 'We'll have to see if we can oblige him. What was it all about?'
Grant told him in some detail and by the time he had finished, Rogan was frowning. 'An Army truck, a jeep, khaki-green paint? What would he want with that little lot?'
'Maybe they're going to try a raid on some army camp, sir, to get arms.'
Rogan got up and walked to the window. 'No, I can't buy that, not without firm evidence. They're just not active enough at the moment. Not capable of that kind of ploy, you know that.' He came back to the desk. 'We've broken the back of the IRA here in England and in Ireland, de Valera's put most of them in internment at the Curragh.' He shook his head. 'It wouldn't make sense that kind of operation at this stage. What did Garvald's brother make of it?'
'He seemed to think Murphy was organizing a raid on a NAAFI depot or something like that. You know the sort of thing? Drive in dressed as soldiers in an army truck.'
'And drive out again with fifty thousand quid's worth of scotch and cigarettes. It's been done before,' Rogan said.
'So Murphy's just another thief on the take, sir? Is that your hunch?'
'I'd accept that if it wasn't for the bullet in the kneecap. That's pure IRA. No, my left ear's twitching about this one, Fergus. I think we could be on to something.'
'All right, sir, what's the next move?'
Rogan walked over to the window thinking about it. Outside it was typical autumn weather, fog drifting across the rooftops from the Thames, rain dripping from the sycamore trees.
He turned. 'I know one thing. I'm not having Birmingham cock this up for us. You handle it personally. Book a car from the pool and get up there today. Take the files with you, photos, the lot. Every known IRA man not under wrappers. Maybe Garvald can pick him out for us.'
'And if not, sir?'
Then we start asking questions at this end. All the usual channels. Special Branch in Dublin will help all they can. They hate the IRA worse than ever since they shot Detective Sergeant O'Brien last year. You always feel worse when it's one of your own.'
'Right, sir,' Grant said. 'I'll get moving.'
.
It was eight that evening when General Karl Steiner finished the meal which had been served to him in his room on the second floor at Prinz Albrechtstrasse. A chicken leg, potatoes fried in oil, just as he liked them, a tossed salad and a half-bottle of Riesling, served ice-cold. Quite incredible. And real coffee to follow.
Things had certainly changed since the final terrible night when he had collapsed after the electrical treatment. The following morning he had awakened to find himself lying between clean sheets in a comfortable bed. No sign of that bastard Rossman and his Gestapo bullyboys. Just an Obersturmbannfuhrer named Zeidler a thoroughly decent type even if he was SS. A gentleman.
He had been full of apologies. A dreadful mistake had been made. False information had been laid with malicious intent. The Reichsfuhrer himself had ordered the fullest possible enquiry. Those responsible would undoubtedly be apprehended and punished. In the meantime, he regretted the fact that the Herr General had still to be kept under lock and key, but this would only be for a matter of a few days. He was sure he understood the situation.
Which Steiner did perfectly. All they had ever had against him was innuendo, nothing concrete. And he hadn't said a word in spite of everything Rossman had done, so the whole thing was going to look like one God-Almighty foul-up on someone's part. They were hanging on to him now to make sure he looked good for when they released him. Already, the bruises had almost faded. Except for the rings around his eyes he looked fine. They'd even given him a new uniform.
The coffee was really quite excellent. He started to pour another cup and the key rattled in the lock and the door opened behind him. There was an uncanny silence. The hair seemed to lift on the back of his head.
He turned slowly and found Karl Rossman standing in the doorway He was wearing his slouch hat the leather coat over his shoulders and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Two Gestapo men in full uniform stood on either side of him.
'Hello, there, Herr General, Rossman said 'Did you think we'd forgotten you?'
Something seemed to break inside Steiner. The whole thing became dreadfully clear 'You bastard!' he said and threw the cup of coffee at Rossman's head.
'Very naughty,' Rossman said 'You shouldn't have done that.' One of the Gestapo men moved in quickly. He rammed the end of his baton into Steiner's groin, who dropped to his knees with a scream of agony. A further blow to the side of the head put him down completely.
'The cellars,' Rossman said simply, and went out. The two Gestapo men got an ankle apiece and followed, dragging the General behind them face-down, keeping in step with a military precision that didn't even falter when they reached the stairs.
.
Max Radl knocked at the door of the Reichsfuhrer's office and went in Himmler was standing in front of the fire, drinking coffee. He put down his cup and crossed to the desk. 'I had hoped that you would have been on your way by now.'
'I leave on the overnight flight for Paris,' Radl told him 'As the Herr Reichsfuhrer is aware, Admiral Canaris only flew to Italy this morning.'
'Unfortunate,' Himmler said 'However, it should still leave you plenty of time.' He removed his pince-nez and polished them as meticulously as usual 'I've read the report you gave Rossman this morning. What about these American Rangers who have appeared in the area? Show me.'
He unfolded the ordnance survey map in front of him and Radl put a finger on Meltham House 'As you can see, Herr Reichsfuhrer, Meltham House is eight miles to the north along the coast from Studley Constable. Twelve or thirteen from Hobs End. Mrs. Grey anticipates no trouble whatsoever in that direction in her latest radio message.'
Himmler nodded 'Your Irishman seems to have earned his wages The rest is up to Steiner.'
'I don't think he'll let us down.'
'Yes, I was forgetting,' Himmler said dryly 'He has, after all, a personal stake in this.'
Radl said, 'May I be permitted to enquire after Major-General Steiner's health?'
'I last saw him yesterday evening,' Himmler replied with perfect truth 'although I must confess he did not see me. At that time he was working his way through a meal consisting of roast potatoes, mixed vegetables and a rather large rump steak.' He sighed, 'If
only these meat eaters realized the effect on the system of such a diet. Do you eat meat, Herr Oberst?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And smoke sixty or seventy of those vile Russian cigarettes a day and drink. What is your brandy consumption now?' He shook his head as he shuffled his papers into a neat pile in front of him, 'Ah, well, in your case I don't suppose it really matters.'
Is there anything the swine doesn't know? Radl thought 'No Herr Reichsfuhrer.'
'What time do they leave on Friday?'
Jack Higgins - Eagle Has Landed Page 27
