Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Khinde, Rufus,’ Marc said, as he pulled a length of wire out of his trouser pocket and raised one eyebrow teasingly. ‘You all set?’

  Khinde was a fearsome looking man who always worked bare-chested. Rufus was a Moroccan. Pale skinned, slender, and whose accent had more in common with a wealthy Frenchman than a North African.

  ‘You got the equipment, Peaches?’ Rufus asked, as he and Khinde backed away from the boat and the dice game. Marc’s nickname came from the tins of fruit he brought them.

  ‘It’ll come in the boot of the Mercedes,’ Marc explained. ‘Did you hear your message on the BBC?’

  Marc had been friendly with Khinde and Rufus since the day the Germans murdered Houari, but tins of peaches weren’t enough to convince them that a twelve-year-old boy offered a genuine chance of escape, so Henderson had arranged for the BBC to transmit a message in the list of announcements that were made after the evening news.

  ‘It’s not easy getting your ear to a radio in the prison camp,’ Rufus smiled. ‘But we managed: Peaches sends best wishes to the friends of Houari.’

  ‘So you believe me now?’ Marc asked.

  ‘We believe,’ Rufus said, as he pulled Marc into a heartfelt embrace.

  Khinde spoke loudly. ‘These Germans call us apes. They won’t ever let a black man go. So better to die trying to escape, eh?’

  A couple of the other African prisoners overheard. Rufus moved further back and gave Khinde a withering stare.

  ‘Peaches said it was a small boat,’ Rufus growled. ‘We can’t help the others.’

  ‘We could take more men,’ Khinde said. ‘Let them escape, let them find another boat.’

  ‘If there’s no escape plan they’ll be massacred,’ Rufus said. ‘The French hate us as much as the Germans. How far do you think they’ll get?’

  ‘The other men look up to you,’ Khinde said. ‘You’re a leader.’

  Marc knew he had to act, but he wasn’t comfortable ordering grown men around. ‘I need to know,’ Marc said resolutely. ‘You help me with the plan exactly like we discussed and you’ll have a good chance to escape. Otherwise I’ll walk away and you can slave for the Nazis until they either shoot or starve you. Decide now.’

  Marc started walking towards the draftsmen’s huts and was hugely relieved when the two Africans started to follow.

  ‘I like Peaches when he’s angry,’ Rufus smiled, and Khinde laughed noisily.

  Marc stopped at one of the wooden picnic benches where the French supervisors ate lunch. ‘Kuefer wants a couple of men,’ he explained. ‘I’m taking these two.’

  The supervisor looked baffled as he scraped a dirty hand through his hair. ‘Why the hell does Kuefer want labourers?’

  Marc shrugged. ‘Ask him yourself. You think he discusses every detail with me?’

  ‘Are you sure you want blacks?’ the foreman asked. ‘Or does he want someone who’ll actually do some work?’

  The other foremen all laughed and Marc pretended to be irritated. ‘If you want to argue with Kuefer I’ll send ’em back, but he’s in a shit mood today, so I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  The foreman waved his hand towards the offices and smiled. ‘And who am I to argue with the orders of our mighty occupiers?’

  ‘Dickhead,’ Marc mumbled to himself as he led Khinde and Rufus between two recently built huts where the drawings were made for the barge modifications. Beyond this was a storage yard stacked with dozens of empty tar drums.

  ‘Take one each,’ Marc said.

  At the far side of the yard was a fire-damaged warehouse that had served as the draftsmen’s office until the construction of the weatherproof huts.

  ‘Go in there and keep quiet,’ Marc said, as he passed Rufus and Khinde strands of piano wire. ‘You’ve got to be ready as soon as they come through the door.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  13:12 Calais

  Henderson spent most of the morning translating at a planning meeting between a German major and French railway bosses. The railway officials had mastered the art of appearing to cooperate while subtly raising objections and declaring that virtually everything the occupiers asked for was impossible.

  He’d struggled not to laugh aloud when one railway controller abruptly told the Germans that the best way to bring fuel and other supplies required for the invasion would be to release the thousands of French railway engineers who were being held in prisoner-of-war camps and then wait six months while repairs were completed, or better still to have not bombed so many French railway lines and bridges in the first place.

  When the railway meeting was over, Henderson walked across the square and headed up to Oberst Ohlsen’s office with a bunch of papers tucked under his arm. He feigned surprise when one of the Oberst’s French admin assistants stepped in front of him.

  ‘They both looked green,’ she explained. ‘The Oberleutnant walked out, but Oberst Ohlsen ended up in an ambulance and the noises that were coming out of his bathroom … He may be a Boche, but I must admit I felt sorry for him.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Henderson said as he stepped towards the Oberst’s office.

  ‘It’s locked,’ the assistant said. ‘The military police said it could have been a poisoning attempt by French rebels. Major Ghunsonn gave orders that the door was to be locked and nobody allowed to go anywhere near the office.’

  ‘Damn,’ Henderson said. ‘I have these papers and they need to be signed and sealed today.’

  The papers were junk, but the curse was well founded. Henderson needed to get inside Ohlsen’s office. The crystals were supposed to give Ohlsen stomach cramps bad enough to make him go back to his quarters and rest, but it seemed the reaction had been too violent and now Major Ghunsonn suspected foul play.

  ‘Oh well,’ Henderson sighed. ‘It’ll have to wait, I suppose.’

  He backed down a wood-panelled hallway and stepped into the executive dining room at the top of the main staircase. He was ready with an apology if there’d been a meeting inside, but all he found was a cleaner dusting the model ships.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Henderson said politely, but the miserable old girl didn’t bother to respond.

  After cutting through the old kitchen, Henderson leaned into the hallway, unsure whether Major Ghunsonn had left a guard on the door of the Oberst’s office. Mercifully, the only step taken was to lock the door and slide the Oberleutnant’s desk in front of it.

  Henderson paused for a moment, calculating the risks: if he was caught he’d be tortured and shot, but the main plan to create the beacons wouldn’t be affected and his whole team had fall-back escape and liaison plans. If he pulled this off, he could be on the other side of the English Channel before anyone found that a British spy had stolen the three dossiers containing every detail of the invasion plan.

  After a final glance, Henderson patted his jacket for a reassuring touch of his silenced pistol. He then took the key and moved quickly towards the double doors of the Oberst’s office.

  13:31 Boulogne

  Marc waited for the Mercedes by the main dockyard entrance and signalled for Schroder to pull over. He crouched at the open window beside Kuefer.

  ‘Just spoke to Louis,’ Marc explained. ‘They’ve had a power failure in one of the huts. They’ll be working in the warehouse building until the generator comes back up.’

  Kuefer always downed a bottle of wine with his lunch. He chilled out under the influence and Marc could have told him that his mother had died without getting any more than a dumb smile in return.

  ‘Better hop in then,’ Schroder said.

  Marc hoped Kuefer didn’t look across and see his hands shaking as the big Mercedes drove the three hundred metres down a badly cracked road. About a million things could go wrong: Rufus and Khinde could chicken out, Louis or one of the foremen could spot them entering the warehouse and come over to investigate, Schroder didn’t drink as much as his boss and might suspect something …

  ‘You been running?’ Kuef
er asked, as they got out of the car.

  Marc’s mouth was almost too dry to speak, but he had damp patches around his armpits and his shirt was stuck to his back.

  ‘I ate lunch sitting in the sun,’ he croaked, as he grabbed the handle of the warehouse door.

  ‘There’s nothing in here,’ Kuefer said as he stepped under the badly burned roof beams.

  Schroder looked suspiciously at Marc as he followed him into the warehouse. ‘What did Louis tell you exactly?’

  Before Marc could answer, Khinde whipped the piano wire around the driver’s throat and pulled tight.

  Kuefer was small, but Rufus hesitated and the Kommodore ducked beneath the wire and reached for the gun holstered around his waist. Marc made himself wide and ploughed forwards, wrapping his arms around Kuefer’s waist. Rufus grabbed the German’s arm and snatched the gun as Kuefer clattered backwards into one of the metal tar drums.

  ‘Don’t shoot – half the dockyard will hear,’ Marc warned.

  Khinde let go and the German driver hit the floorboards with a thud. Rufus bludgeoned Kuefer with the base of the pistol before Khinde knocked him out with a blow from his huge fist.

  ‘This one’s for Houari,’ Khinde said, looking half crazed as he crushed Kuefer’s throat under his boot.

  Marc leaned on one of the tar drums and caught his breath. He recoiled when he noticed the growing pool of blood around Kuefer’s head.

  Rufus put his hand on Marc’s shoulder. ‘You OK?’

  Marc felt queasy, but managed to nod. ‘Put the bodies in the tar barrels and turn them upside down. I’ll go get the explosives from the back of the Mercedes.’

  *

  13:41 Calais

  Henderson hung around inside Oberst Ohlsen’s office until he was certain that most of the admin staff had gone to lunch. After hurriedly relocking the office door, he cut back through the kitchen and meeting room, struggling with a large box of files which contained the latest draft of the invasion map and three reams of important documents.

  After the short walk back to his desk in the empty admin office, Henderson removed his two good fountain pens from his desk drawer and pocketed the tubs of Benzedrine pills which he relied upon when he was tired or stressed. Then he loaded the box on to a two-wheeled trolley and took them down to the ground floor in the lift.

  The security guards thought nothing of Ohlsen’s personal translator coming in and out with a document box and one guard even lifted the base of the trolley as he went down the steps.

  After Marc and Henderson had been dropped off, PT and Paul had taken the truck a few hundred metres in a quiet side turning behind a laundry.

  ‘You’re late,’ PT said to Henderson. ‘I was starting to wonder.’

  ‘Your old friend Major Ghunsonn took an interest. He locked Ohlsen’s office, and this little trolley’s a pig on the cobbles.’

  As Henderson raised the documents up into the truck, Paul dragged a pair of identical boxes across the floor of the van. As he held one out for Henderson to grab it, his fingers slipped from the handle and the box thumped against the tailgate.

  ‘Careful!’ Henderson yelled, as his heart missed several beats. ‘That’s explosive in there.’

  Paul looked sheepish as he jumped out of the truck, and Henderson gave him a friendly pat on the head.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Henderson said. ‘Just keep calm. Now, I’ve got to get this lot back to headquarters. Have you boys got some food?’

  PT nodded. ‘Maxine made us sandwiches and stuff.’

  ‘Good,’ Henderson said. ‘And you know where you’re supposed to be meeting Eugene?’

  ‘Quarter to three, in the café de la Pomme,’ PT said. ‘Then we’ll drive over to the stables and wait for a big bang.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Henderson nodded. ‘If I’m not there within ten minutes of the bomb going off, start without me. If the bomb hasn’t gone off by six o’clock and you haven’t seen me, drive back to the farm and help Rosie deal with the boat.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ PT said. ‘Good luck.’

  Henderson headed back towards army headquarters with the two document boxes balanced on his trolley. The same German guard helped him carry the trolley back up the stairs and Henderson walked along the ground-floor corridor towards an archive room, which sat directly beneath the offices of several senior German officers.

  There were two Germans and a French admin assistant in the room, but the shelves went up to the ceiling and the boxes and files stacked on them provided anonymity. Henderson found a row of shelving that ended at a large window and looked out into the busy square. Flocks of pigeons raced between the pedestrians and picked at crumbs dropped by French girls eating packed lunch on the wrought-iron benches.

  Henderson felt guilty, knowing the bomb would kill people inside the building and injure many more as shards of hot glass blasted across the square. It was one of thousands of bombs that would go off that day and far from the largest, but that didn’t make it any easier to look out of the window and know that some of the pretty office girls and the young soldiers flirting with them were in the last hours of their lives.

  After looking back to check that nobody was watching, Henderson took the cardboard lid off the first box and shifted a dozen sticks of gelignite explosive into the second. He then took a brass three-hour detonator tube from his jacket, crushed the end under his heel and dug it into one of the soft gelignite sticks.

  The crushing released acid into a chamber inside the detonator. This acid would slowly eat through a piece of metal and release a spring. The freed spring would create a spark, which would ignite a small gunpowder charge. This in turn would detonate the twenty-four sticks of gelignite.

  Unlike a clockwork detonator, which is bulky and makes a ticking noise, the acid detonator was silent. However, whereas a good clockwork detonator can be set to explode within a five-minute window, acid detonators are only accurate to within thirty per cent. So the bomb was likely to go off in somewhere between two and four hours.

  Henderson put the lids back on the two boxes and slid them on to a high shelf. Then he left army headquarters for the last time.

  13:44 Boulogne

  Marc felt weird, squatting on the warehouse floor, knowing that the two dead Germans and the rags they’d used to clean up their blood were squeezed into the tar drums beside him. He opened the canvas bag and pulled out a sketch drawn by Paul, before explaining to Khinde and Rufus.

  ‘This drawing shows the port,’ Marc explained. ‘One big harbour, one even bigger harbour and the canal system behind it. Right where the canal meets the harbours is the coal yard and, most importantly, these two large tanks for boats that run on diesel. If we can blow those tanks, we can get an explosion going that lights up the sky. The only problem is that fuel burns fast, so we need these.’

  Marc pulled a grenade-sized package out of the bag and handed it to Rufus.

  ‘Phosphorous bombs,’ Marc explained. ‘These explode into fragments that burn white hot for up to half an hour and set light to anything they come into contact with.’

  Marc pulled something that looked like a block of marzipan out of the bag. ‘This is plastic explosive. Powerful, sticky, and you can mould it to any shape you like. What we have to do is get up into the fuel yard and drop a bunch of these phosphorous bombs into the fuel tank. At around eight-thirty tonight we go back to the fuel tanks and stick a lump of this plastic to the side of each canister, we light a two-minute fuse, then run like hell, and drive away in Kuefer’s Mercedes.’

  ‘They’ll miss us before then,’ Khinde said. ‘The Germans will search.’

  Marc shook his head. ‘Kuefer’s moody, nobody wants to upset him. If I say Kuefer’s taken you two on some special assignment nobody is going to care enough to ask any more questions.’

  ‘What about getting through the perimeter security?’ Rufus asked.

  ‘Everyone knows Kuefer’s car. Nobody ever stops us.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve th
ought of everything.’ Khinde smiled.

  Marc shook his head. ‘Not me. Henderson came down here the Sunday before last and scouted the whole place. All I’m doing is following his instructions.’

  ‘So what now?’ Khinde asked.

  ‘I’ve got Kuefer’s camera and a fifty-metre rule so that you guys can pretend to take measurements.’

  Marc hooked the Leica camera around his neck, grabbed the bag and walked several hundred metres, passing the huge open-sided coal shed. A small crew worked in the shed repairing a narrow-gauge steam train that distributed coal around the docks, but nobody took any notice as Marc stepped up to the diesel tanks and began taking photographs, while Khinde and Rufus held opposite ends of the measuring tape.

  Marc was climbing up a ladder on to the top of the tank when he saw Louis, the head draftsman and engineer, heading towards them.

  ‘Where’s your boss?’ Louis asked angrily. ‘I saw his car, but I’ve been waiting for him in the office like a goddamn turkey for forty minutes.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ Marc said. ‘Something weird’s going on. I met him up by the gate, but he drove off in another car with some black uniforms inside.’

  ‘The SS?’ Louis said warily. ‘What do they want with Kuefer?’

  Marc shrugged and acted irritated. ‘Why do you people think know everything? The boss tells me to get two labourers, then come out here and measure these tanks, then wait for him to come back. He says it might be a few hours.’I

  ‘The Germans only installed those tanks a few weeks back,’ Louis said. ‘I wonder what they’re playing at now.’

  Marc pointed at Rufus and Khinde. ‘And these two guys are worried that they’ll be missed down at the yard. Can you make sure everyone knows they’re working for Kuefer?’

  ‘Sure,’ Louis said. ‘If Kuefer comes back, tell him I need to see him. I’ve got three docks sitting still, waiting for his approval on revised drawings. And I don’t know why he’s got you taking measurements and pictures. The Germans must have full sets of engineering drawings somewhere.’