by Jack Higgins
“I don't think so,” Schellenberg said softly.
He was standing just inside the door, the Mauser with the bulbous silencer in his right hand. Sindermann slipped behind her, ramming the Walther into her side.
“Drop it,” he ordered. “Now—or she dies.”
Schellenberg's arm swung up and he shot him through the head instantly. The top of Sindermann's skull fragmented and the force of the bullet sent him back out across the balcony and over the rail into the river below.
Hannah had fallen to one knee, blood across her hair and face. As he helped her to her feet, Schellenberg said urgently, “Kleiber? Where is he?”
“The docks,” she said. “He forced Joe to take him there, hidden in the back of the sports car.”
He took her hand, turned, and hurried down the stairs.
As the Buick swerved in at the gate, several soldiers ran forward to block its way. Colonel da Cunha was standing in the entrance of the gatehouse, talking to Walter Monckton. He came over at once, frowning at the sight of Hannah Winter, who sat beside Schellenberg, blood on her face. “What's happened? Explain yourself, General.” “Has Joe come through in the silver sports car?” Hannah demanded.
“Why yes, several minutes ago. He told me he wished to catch a last glimpse of the Duke.”
“Kleiber was with him,” Schellenberg said. “Hidden in the back, and he has a rifle.”
Walter Monckton, who had appeared behind Da Cunha, said in horror, “Good God, what can we do?”
There was a sudden cheer. As they turned, the Duke and Duchess appeared on the upper deck and waved to the dock workers below.
Monckton ran forward, shouting frantically. “Go back, David! For God's sake, go back!”
The Duke and Duchess, unable to hear a thing he was saying, waved, smiling.
It was Hannah then who, looking wildly about her, saw the silver Mercedes parked outside the warehouse a hundred yards away.
“There!” she cried, pointing. “Joe's car.”
As Zeidler gunned the motor, Da Cunha jumped on the running board and the car surged forward, a dozen or fifteen armed police running behind.
The sports car was parked beside a green door marked Fire Exit. Schellenberg flung it open and found stone steps ascending into darkness. He pulled out his Mauser and went up on the run.
Willi Kleiber stood behind Jackson at the parapet. The Excalibur was even farther out into the stream now. As she sounded her whistle, the Duke and Duchess entered a railed-off enclosure in the stern that had obviously been specially set aside for them.
“Beautiful,” Kleiber said. “I can get two for the price of one.”
“Don't be a fool, man,” Jackson told him. “There's nothing to be gained now.”
“He made fools of us—all of us,” Kleiber answered. “The Führer himself, even. Now, he pays.”
He rammed the butt of the Walther into Jackson's side. The American went down with a groan and Kleiber knelt, resting the Walther on the parapet, taking careful aim at the Duke.
As he squeezed the trigger, Jackson, half unconscious as he was, grappled with him. The ship's whistle roared again at that moment, drowning the sound of the shot, and the bullet plowed into the deck several feet to one side of the Duke and Duchess, who were totally unaware of the fact in the noise and confusion of their departure.
Kleiber kicked out at Jackson, pushing him away, and took aim for the second time. The door to the stairs behind burst open, a familiar voice cried, “Kleiber!”
Kleiber turned, hate taking complete possession of him now, the rifle coming up, and Schellenberg shot him in the right shoulder, the heavy bullet turning him in a circle. The next two shattered his spine, driving him against the parapet, the rifle flying into space.
Colonel da Cunha knelt down beside him, but no examination was necessary. He glanced up. “You are a difficult man to understand, General Schellenberg.”
“Something I live with every day of my life.”
“You will be going home soon, I trust, back to Berlin?”
“Today, if I can manage it.”
“Good,” Da Cunha mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “One episode like this is enough in any policeman's career.”
Hannah arrived and dropped to one knee beside Jackson, who was trying to sit up.
“Did he make it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thanks to General Schellenberg.”
Schellenberg pocketed his Mauser, turned, and moved toward the door. As he started down the stairs, she caught up with him, grabbing him by the sleeve.
“You're going back to Berlin, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no choice, and I think, in your heart, you know this. For me, it is too late.”
He started down the stairs again. She called, “Walter!” and there was desperation in her voice, a kind of rage at life and the cruelty of it.
“Did I ever tell you that when you sing, you sound like Billie Holiday on one of her better days?” he said.
His footsteps echoed hollowly for a while as he descended, the door banged, and he was gone.
As the Excalibur moved out to sea from the mouth of the Tagus, the Duchess went in search of the Duke and found him still standing in the stern.
“I've brought you a scarf,” she said.
“Why, thank you, Wallis.”
She took his arm and they stood there at the rail together. “It could be worse, David, the Bahamas, I mean. We'll make it work, you'll see, so try not to be too disappointed. After all, we have each other.”
“Of course we do, and I'm not the slightest bit disappointed.” He smiled that wonderful smile that illuminated not only himself, but everything about him. “In fact, to be perfectly honest, Wallis, I feel rather pleased with myself.”
“But will anyone ever know, David?” she said.
“I will, my love.” He kissed her gently on the brow. “And so will you. That's all that matters.”
When Schellenberg entered his office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse at three o'clock the following afternoon, he had been traveling for just over twenty-four hours with only the occasional nap to keep him going. His tweed suit was crumpled and he badly needed a shave.
He had been in the room for only a couple of minutes when the door was opened without ceremony and Heydrich entered.
“You look as if you haven't slept for a week.”
“I only feel that way.”
“He knows you're here, Walter. Wants you upstairs right away. What a mess this thing turned out to be, but I'm sorry. I can't help you now. This time, you're finished.”
“Oh, I don't know,” Schellenberg said. “Let's wait and see, shall we?”
He delivered his report, standing in front of Himmler's desk, holding nothing back of any consequence.
When he had finished, there was silence for a moment, then Himmler said, “You were right to execute Kleiber as you did. He was a fool. There was nothing to be gained from assassinating the Duke at that stage in the affair.”
Schellenberg said, “There is, of course, the question of the information passed on to the Duke…”
“By order of von Ribbentrop.” Himmler sighed. “Yes, I do feel the Reichsminister has been a little injudicious in that respect.”
“Will you inform the Führer?”
“On another occasion, perhaps. One that is more suited to my purposes.”
Which boded ill for Ribbentrop.
Schellenberg said, “And the details of Sea Lion, Reichsführer? What can we do about that? The Duke will certainly have passed them on to the Prime Minister, probably using Walter Monckton as his messenger.”
“But to what avail? There are only two periods before the autumn gales when the tide is right for a landing. The British know that as well as we do. The important point is that there will be nothing they can do about it. In the same way, the fact that they now know the date of Eagle Day makes little difference wh
en they're hardly in a position to defend themselves against the might of the Luftwaffe.”
“But Reichsführer, they will also know now, that if Goering fails in his task, if they can hold until the seventeenth of September, Operation Sea Lion will be aborted and the Führer will turn his attention East.”
Himmler said, “Are you seriously suggesting that the mightiest air force the world has ever seen, a force that has taken total control of the skies of Europe, can be held back by a handful of Spitfire pilots with virtually no combat experience?”
“Yes, Reichsführer, put that way, I suppose it does sound rather absurd.”
“You're tired, General. You've been through a great deal. I suggest you go home now. Take a week off, and when you return you'll see things in perspective again.”
“Thank you, Reichsführer.”
Schellenberg went out, closing the door softly behind him, and walked through the anteroom.
He said softly, “Am I really the only sane man in a world gone mad?”
EPILOGUE
Hannah Winter returned to America a month later on the same boat as Connie Jones and the boys. Joe Jackson stayed in Lisbon until October, but news of the Battle of Britain proved too much for him and he sold the club, took passage to England on a Portuguese boat, and joined the RAF.
By April, 1942, he was a squadron leader with a D.S.O. and two D.F.Cs to his name. On the fifth of April, he was reported missing, believed killed, having been last seen pursuing two ME-109's across the Channel. Perhaps, for once, he had failed to watch the sun.
Hannah worked with the USO for some time and finally returned to England at the beginning of 1944 to tour American Air Force bases. During the spring of that year, the Luftwaffe renewed its night attacks against London in what became known as the Little Blitz, and Hannah Winter, along with forty-two other people, was killed instantly when a club on Curzon Street, at which she was appearing, received a direct hit.
Heydrich was assassinated in Prague in June, 1942, by a team of Czech agents specially recruited for the job. By way of reprisal, the Nazis destroyed the village of Lidice and murdered the entire adult population.
Himmler, captured by British Forces after the war, took poison when his identity was discovered.
Walter Schellenberg became Head of the Combined Secret Services in 1944, playing out the farce to the end, surviving all of them. In 1945, he was imprisoned at Landsberg and testified at various war crimes trials before being tried himself on the charge of having been a member of an illegal organization, the SS.
He was sentenced to six years and perhaps because, for an officer with his background, there had been a surprising number of witnesses who had spoken in his favor at his trial, he was released after only two years' imprisonment, in 1951. He died of cancer at the age of forty-two and is buried in the public cemetery at Turin.
The Duke of Windsor, posted as far away from the war as possible, first as Governor of the Bahamas, then of Bermuda, had already made his contribution: probably one of the most important of the entire war.
At the height of the Battle of Britain on September 15, 1940, Winston Churchill visited Air Vice Marshall Keith Park at Number 2 Group's operation room at Uxbridge.
With the strongest concentration of planes the Luftwaffe had ever sent over, the RAF were stretched to breaking point. The Prime Minister asked what reserves there were to bring in.
“None, sir,” Park told him. “Everything's up there.”
“Hold on,” the Prime Minister told him. “Two more days, that's all and it will be over.”
Park looked at him in amazement. “But how can you be sure, Prime Minister? Is this information from a trustworthy source?”
Winston Churchill smiled. “I have it on the most impeccable authority,” he said.
A Biography of Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.
Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures—such as John Dillinger—and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.
Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.
Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.
A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson’s books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.
Patterson’s first payment as an author, a check for £67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, “It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings.”
Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.
Patterson visiting a rehearsal for Walking Wounded, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.
Patterson with his children.
Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1979 by Jack Higgins
ISBN: 978-1-4532-0016-2
This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Cover design by Liz Connor
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