Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  Bloggs took the photograph of Die Nadel out of his wallet and gave it

  to the man.

  "Have you ever seen him?"

  The lock-keeper put the picture on his lap while he held a fresh match

  to his pipe. Then he studied the photograph for a while, and handed it

  back.

  Well? "Harris said.

  "Aye." The lock-keeper nodded slowly.

  "He was here about this time yesterday. Came in for a cup of tea. Nice

  enough chap. What's he done, shown a light after blackout?"

  Bloggs sat down heavily.

  "That clinches it," he said.

  Harris thought aloud.

  "He moors the boat downstream from here, and goes into the restricted

  area after dark." He spoke quietly, so that the lock-keeper should not

  hear.

  "When he comes back, the Home Guard has his boat staked out. He deals

  with them, sails a bit farther to the railway, scuttles his boat and...

  hops a train ?"

  Bloggs said to the lock-keeper: "The railway line that crosses the

  canal a few miles downstream where does it go?"

  "London."

  Bloggs said: "Oh, shit."

  Bloggs got back to the War Office in Whitehall at midnight. Godliman

  and Parkin were there, waiting for him. Bloggs said: "It's him, all

  right," and told them the story.

  Parkin was excited, Godliman just looked tense. When Bloggs had

  finished, Godliman said: "So now he's back in London and we're looking

  for a needle in a haystack again." He was playing with matches,

  forming a picture with them on his desk.

  "Do you know, every time I look at that photograph I get the feeling

  I've actually met the damn fellow."

  "Well, think!" Bloggs said.

  "Where?"

  Godliman shook his head in frustration.

  "It must have been only once, and somewhere strange. It's like a face

  I've seen in a lecture audience, or in the background at a cocktail

  party. A fleeting glimpse, a casual encounter when I remember it

  probably won't do us any good."

  Parkin said: "What's in that area?"

  "I don't know, which means it's probably highly important," Godliman

  said.

  There was a silence. Parkin lit a cigarette with one of God-liman's

  matches. Bloggs looked up. We could print a million copies of his

  picture give one to every policeman, ARP warden, member of the Home

  Guard, serviceman, railway porter; paste them up on hoardings and

  publish them in the papers..."

  Godliman shook his head.

  "Too risky. What if he's already talked to Hamburg about whatever he's

  seen? If we make a public fuss about the man they'll know that his

  information is good. We'd only be lending credence to him."

  "We've got to do something."

  "Surely. We will circulate his picture to police officers. We'll give

  his description to the press, and say he's just a straightforward

  murderer. We can give the details of the Highgate and Stockwell

  murders, without saying that security is involved."

  Parkin said: "What you're saying is, we can fight with one hand tied

  behind our back."

  "For now, anyway."

  "I'll start the ball rolling with the Yard," Bloggs said. He picked up

  the phone.

  Godliman looked at his watch.

  "There's not much more we can do tonight, but I don't feel like going

  home. I shan't sleep."

  Parkin stood up.

  "In that case I'm going to find a kettle and make some tea." He went

  out.

  The matches on Godliman's desk made a picture of a horse and carriage.

  He took away one of the horse's legs and lit his pipe with it.

  "Have you got a girl, Fred?" he asked conversationally.

  "No."

  "Not since ?"

  "No."

  Godliman puffed at his pipe.

  "There has to be an end to grief, you know."

  Bloggs made no reply.

  Godliman said: "Look, perhaps I shouldn't talk to you like a Dutch

  uncle. But I know how you feel I've been through it myself. The only

  difference was that I didn't have anyone to blame."

  "You didn't remarry," Bloggs said, not looking at Godliman.

  "No. And I don't want you to make the same mistake. When you reach

  middle age, living alone can be very depressing."

  "Did I ever tell you, they called her Fearless Bloggs."

  "Yes, you did."

  Bloggs looked at Godliman at last.

  "Tell me, where in the world will I find another girl like that?"

  "Does she have to be a hero?"

  "After Christine yes."

  "England is full of heroes, Fred."

  At that moment Colonel Terry walked in.

  Godliman said: "Ah, Uncle Andrew ' Terry interrupted: "Don't get up.

  This is important. Listen carefully, because I have to give it to you

  fast. Bloggs, you need to know this, too. Whoever killed those five

  Home Guard has learned our most vital secret.

  "Number one: our invasion force for Europe will land at Normandy.

  Number two: the Germans believe it will land at Calais. Number three:

  one of the most vital aspects of the deception is a very large phoney

  army, called the First United States Army Group, located in the

  restricted area those men were patrolling. That area contains dummy

  barracks, cardboard aircraftj rubber tanks a huge toy army which looks

  real to the observers in the reconnaissance planes we've been letting

  through."

  Bloggs said: "How come you're so sure the spy found out?"

  Terry went to the door.

  "Come in, Rodriguez."

  A tall, handsome man with jet-black hair and a long nose entered the

  room and nodded politely to Godliman and Bloggs. Terry said: "Senhor

  Rodriguez is our man at the Portuguese Embassy. Tell them what

  happened, Rodriguez."

  The man stood by the door, holding his hat.

  "A taxi came to the Embassy at about eleven o'clock. The passenger did

  not get out, but the driver came to the door with an envelope addressed

  to Francisco. The doorman called me, as he has been instructed to do,

  and I took possession of the envelope. I was in time to take the

  number of the cab."

  "I'm having the cabbie traced," Terry said.

  "All right, Rodriguez, you'd better get back. And thank you."

  The tall Portuguese left the room. Terry handed to Godliman a large

  yellow envelope, addressed to Manuel Francisco. Godliman opened it it

  had already been unsealed and withdrew a second envelope marked with a

  meaningless series of letters: presumably a code.

  Within the inner envelope were several sheets of paper covered with

  handwriting and a set of ten-by-eight photographs. Godliman examined

  the letter.

  "It looks like a very basic code," he said.

  "You don't need to read it," Terry said impatiently.

  "Look at the photographs."

  Godliman did so. There were about thirty of them, and he looked at

  each one before speaking. He handed them to Bloggs and said: "This is

  a catastrophe."

  Bloggs glanced through the pictures then put them down.

  Godliman said: "This is only his back-up. He's still got the

  negatives, and he's going somewhere with them."
/>   The three men sat still in the little office, like a tableau. The only

  illumination came from a spotlight on Godliman's desk. With the cream

  walls, the blacked-out window, the spare furniture and the worn Civil

  Service carpet, they might have been anywhere in the world.

  Terry said: "I'm going to have to tell Churchill."

  The phone rang, and the Colonel picked it up.

  "Yes. Good. Bring him here right away, please but before you do, ask

  him where he dropped the passenger. What? Really? Thank you, get

  here fast." He hung up.

  "The taxi dropped our man at University College Hospital."

  Bloggs said: "Perhaps he was injured in the fight with the Home

  Guard."

  Terry said: "Where is that hospital ?"

  "About five minutes' walk from Euston Station," Godliman said. Trains

  from Euston go to Holyhead, Liverpool, Glas-go ... all places from

  which you can catch a ferry to Ireland."

  "Liverpool to Belfast," Bloggs said.

  "Then a car to the border and across into Eire, and a U-boat on the

  Atlantic coast. He wouldn't risk Holyhead-to-Dublin because of the

  passport control, and there would be no point in going beyond Liverpool

  to Glasgow."

  Godliman said: "Fred, you'd better go to the station and show the

  picture of Faber around, see if anyone noticed him getting on a train.

  I'll phone the station and warn them you're coming, and at the same

  time find out which trains have left since about ten-thirty."

  Bloggs picked up his hat and coat.

  "I'm on my way."

  Godliman lifted the phone.

  "Yes, we're on our way."

  There were still plenty of people at Euston Station. Although in

  normal times the station closed around midnight, wartime delays were

  such that the last train often had not left before the earliest milk

  train of the morning arrived. The station concourse was a mass of kit

  bags and sleeping bodies.

  Bloggs showed the picture to three railway policemen. None of them

  recognized the face. He tried ten women porters: nothing. He went to

  every ticket barrier. One of the guards said: We look at tickets, not

  faces." He tried half a dozen passengers without result. Finally he

  went into the ticket office and showed the picture to each of the

  clerks.

  A very fat, bald clerk with ill-fitting false teeth recognized the

  face.

  "I play a game," he told Bloggs.

  "I try to spot some133 thing about a passenger that tells me why he's

  catching a train. Like, he might have a black tie for a funeral, or

  muddy boots means he's a farmer going home, or there might be a college

  scarf, or a white mark on a woman's finger where she's took off her

  wedding ring ... know what I mean? This is a dull job not that I'm

  complaining ' "What did you notice about this chap?" Bloggs

  interrupted him.

  "Nothing. That was it, see1 couldn't make him out at all. Almost like

  he was trying to be inconspicuous, know what I mean?"

  "I know what you mean." Bloggs paused.

  "Now, I want you to think very carefully. Where was he going can you

  remember?"

  "Yes," said the fat clerk.

  "Inverness."

  "That doesn't mean he's going there," said Godliman.

  "He's a professional he knows we can ask questions at railway stations.

  I expect he automatically buys a ticket for the wrong destination." He

  looked at his watch.

  "He must have caught the eleven forty-five. That train is now pulling

  into Stafford. I checked with the railway, they checked with the

  signalman," he added by way of explanation.

  "They're going to stop the train this side of Crewe. I've got a plane

  standing by to fly you two to Stoke-on-Trent.

  "Parkin, you'll board the train where it's stopped, outside Crewe.

  You'll be dressed as a ticket inspector, and you'll look at every

  ticket and every face on that train. When you've spotted Faber, just

  stay close to him.

  "Bloggs, you'll be waiting at the ticket barrier at Crewe, just in case

  Faber decides to hop off there. But he won't. You'll get on the

  train, and be first off at Liverpool, and waiting at the ticket barrier

  for Parkin and Faber to come off. Half the local constabulary will be

  there to back you up."

  "That's all very well if he doesn't recognize me," Parkin said.

  "What if he remembers my face from Highgate?"

  Godliman opened a desk drawer, took out a pistol, and gave it to

  Parkin.

  "If he recognizes you, shoot the bastard."

  Parkin pocketed the weapon without comment.

  Godliman said: "I want both of you to be quite clear on the importance

  of all this. If we don't catch this man, the invasion of Europe will

  have to be postponed possibly for a year. In that year the balance of

  war could turn against us. The time may never be this right again."

  Bloggs said: "Do we get told how long it is to D-Day?s "All I know is

  that it's a matter of weeks."

  Parkin was thinking.

  "It'll be June, then."

  Bloggs said: "Shit."

  Godliman said: "No comment."

  The phone rang and Godliman picked it up. After a moment he looked

  up.

  "Your car's here."

  Bloggs and Parkin stood up.

  Godliman said: "Wait a minute."

  They stood by the door, looking at the professor. He was saying:

  "Yes." sir. Certainly. I will. Goodbye, sir."

  Bloggs could not think of anyone Godliman called Sir. He said: "Who

  was that?"

  Godliman said: "Churchill."

  "What did he have to say?" Parkin asked, awestruck.

  Godliman said: "He wishes you both good luck and Godspeed."

  FIFTEEN

  The carriage was pitch dark. Faber thought of the jokes people made:

  "Take your hand off my knee. No, not you, you." The British would

  make jokes out of anything. Their railways were now worse than ever,

  but nobody complained any more because it was in a good cause. Faber

  preferred the dark: it was anonymous.

  There had been singing, earlier on. Three sailors in the corridor had

  started it, and the whole carriage had joined in. They had been

  through Be Like The Kettle And Sing, There'll Always Be An England

  (followed by Glasgow Belongs To Me and Land Of My Fathers for ethnic

  balance) and appropriately, Don't Get Around Much Any More.

  There had been an air raid warning, and the train slowed to thirty

  miles an hour. They were all supposed to lie on the floor, but of

  course there was no room. An anonymous female voice had said: "Oh,

  God, I'm frightened," and a male voice, equally anonymous except that

  it was Cockney, had said: "You're in the safest place, girl they can't

  'it a movin' target." Then everyone laughed and nobody was scared any

  more. Someone opened a suitcase and passed around a packet of

  dried-egg sandwiches.

  One of the sailors wanted to play cards.

  "How can we play cards in the dark?"

  "Feel the edges. All Harry's cards are marked."

  The train stopped unaccountably at about 4 a.m. A cultured voice the

  dried-egg sandwich supplier, Faber thoug
ht said: "My guess is we're

  outside Crewe."

  "Knowing the railways, we could be anywhere from Bolton to

  Bournemouth," said the Cockney.

  The train jerked and moved off, and everyone cheered. Where, Faber

  wondered, was the caricature Englishman, with his icy reserve and his

  stiff upper lip? Not here.

  A few minutes later a voice in the corridor said: "Tickets, please."

  Faber noted the Yorkshire accent: they were in the north now. He

  fumbled in his pockets for his ticket.

  He had the corner seat, near the door, so he could see into the

  corridor. The inspector was shining a torch on to the tickets. Faber