Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  not despise her for offering herself like a Soho streetwalker.

  She turned over in the bed, smiling at her own foolishness: for how

  could she possibly know whether he would despise her? She had known

  him only for a day, and he had spent most of that day asleep.

  Still, it would be nice to have him look at her again, his expression

  of admiration tinged with some kind of amusement. It would be nice to

  feel his hands, to touch his body, to squeeze against the warmth of his

  skin.

  She realized that her body was responding to the images in her mind.

  She felt the urge to touch herself, and resisted it, as she had done

  for four years. At least I haven't dried up, like an old crone, she

  thought.

  She moved her legs, and sighed as a warm sensation spread through her

  loins. This was getting unreasonable. It was time to go to sleep.

  There was just no way she would make love to Henry, or to anyone else,

  tonight.

  With that thought she got out of bed and went to the door.

  Faber heard a footfall on the landing, and he reacted automatically.

  His mind cleared instantly of the idle, lascivious thoughts with which

  it had been occupied. He swung his legs to the floor and slid out from

  under the bedclothes in a single, fluid movement; then silently crossed

  the room to stand beside the window in the darkest corner, the stiletto

  knife in his hand.

  He heard the door open, heard the intruder step inside, heard the door

  close again. At that point he started to think, for an assassin would

  have left the door open for a quick getaway, and it occurred to him

  that there were a hundred reasons why it was impossible that an

  assassin should have found him here.

  He ignored the thought, for he had survived this long by catering for

  the one-in-a-thousand chance. The wind dropped momentarily, and he

  heard an indrawn breath, a faint gasp, from beside his bed, enabling

  him to locate the intruder's exact position. He sprang.

  He had her on the bed, face down, with his knife at her throat and his

  knee in the small of her back, before he realized that the intruder was

  a woman. A split-second later he guessed her identity. He eased his

  grip, reached out to the bedside table, and switched on the light.

  Her face was pale in the dim glow of the lamp.

  Faber sheathed the knife before she could see it. He took his weight

  off her body.

  "I'm awfully sorry," he said.

  She turned on to her back and looked up at him as he straddled her. She

  began to giggle.

  Faber added: "I thought you were a burglar."

  "And where would a burglar come from?" she laughed. The colour rushed

  back to her cheeks in a blush.

  She was wearing a very loose, old-fashioned flannel nightgown which

  covered her from her throat to her ankles. Her dark-red hair spread

  across Faber's pillow in disarray. Her eyes seemed very large, and her

  lips were moist.

  "You are remarkably beautiful," Faber said quietly.

  She closed her eyes.

  Faber bent over her and kissed her mouth. Her lips parted immediately,

  and she returned his kiss hungrily. With his fingertips he stroked her

  shoulders, her neck and her ears. She moved beneath him.

  He wanted to kiss her for a long time, to explore her mouth and savour

  the intimacy; but he realized that she had no time for tenderness. She

  reached inside his pyjama trousers and squeezed. She moaned softly and

  began to breathe hard.

  Still kissing her, Faber reached for the light and killed it. He

  pulled away from her and took off his pyjama jacket. Quickly, so that

  she would not wonder what he was doing, he tugged at the can stuck to

  his chest, ignoring the sting as the sticky tape was jerked away from

  his skin. He slide the photographs under the bed. He also unbuttoned

  the sheath on his left forearm and dropped that.

  He pushed the skin of her nightdress up to her waist. She wore nothing

  underneath.

  "Quickly," she said.

  "Quickly."

  Faber lowered his body to hers.

  Lucy did not feel the least bit guilty afterwards. She just felt

  content, satisfied, replete. She had had what she wanted, and she was

  glad. She lay still, eyes closed, stroking the bristly hair at the

  back of Henry's neck, enjoying the rough tickling sensation on her

  hands.

  After a while she said: "I was in such a rush..."

  "It's not over yet," he murmured.

  She frowned in the dark "Didn't you...?"

  "No, I didn't. You hardly did."

  She smiled.

  "I beg to differ."

  He turned on the light and looked at her.

  "We'll see."

  He slipped down the bed, his torso between her thighs, and kissed her

  belly. His tongue flicked in and out of her navel. Itwas quite nice.

  Then his head went lower. Surely, she thought, he doesn't want to kiss

  me there. He did. And he did more than kiss. His lips pulled at the

  soft folds of her skin. She was paralysed by shock as his tongue began

  to probe in the crevices and then, as he parted her lips with his

  fingers, to thrust deep inside her.

  Finally his restless tongue found a tiny, sensitive place, so small she

  had not known it existed, so sensitive that his touch was almost

  painful at first. She forgot her shock as she was overwhelmed by the

  most piercing sensation she had ever experienced. Unable to restrain

  herself, she moved her hips up and down, faster and faster, rubbing her

  slippery flesh over his mouth, his chin, his nose, his forehead,

  totally absorbed in her own pleasure. The thrill built and built, like

  feedback in a microphone, feeding upon itself, until she felt utterly

  possessed by joy and opened her mouth to scream, whereupon Henry

  clapped his hand over her face to quiet her; but she screamed in her

  throat as the climax went on and on, ending in something that felt like

  an explosion and left her so drained that she thought she would never

  get up.

  Her mind seemed to go blank for a while. She knew vaguely that Henry

  still lay between her legs, his bristly cheek against the soft inside

  of her thigh, his lips moving gently, affectionately.

  Eventually she said: "Now I know what Lawrence means."

  He lifted his head.

  "I don't understand."

  She sighed.

  "I didn't realize it could be like that. It was lovely."

  "Was?"

  "Oh, God, I've no more energy..."

  He changed position, kneeling astride her chest, and she realized what

  he wanted her to do, and for the second time she was frozen by shock:

  it was just too big ... but suddenly she wanted to do it, she needed to

  take him into her mouth; so she lifted her head, and her lips closed

  around him, and he gave a soft groan.

  He held her head in his hands, moving it to and fro, moaning quietly.

  She looked at his face. He was staring wild-eyed at her, drinking in

  the sight of what she was doing. She wondered what she would do when

  he ... came ... and she decided she didn't care, because everything

  else had been so g
ood with him that she knew she would enjoy even

  that.

  But it was not to be. When she thought he was on the point of losing

  control he stopped, moved away, lay on top of her, and entered her

  again. This time it was very slow and relaxed, like the rhythm of the

  sea on the beach; until he put his hands under her hips and grasped the

  globes of her bottom, and she looked at his face and knew that now, now

  he was ready to shed his self-control and lose himself in her. That

  excited her more than anything, so that when at last he arched his

  back, his face screwed up into a mask of pain, and groaned deep in his

  chest, she wrapped her legs around his waist and abandoned herself to

  ecstasy; and then, after so long, she heard the trumpets and

  thunderstorms and the clash of cymbals that Lawrence had promised.

  They were quiet for a long time. Lucy felt warm, as if she were

  glowing; she had never felt so warm in all her time on the island. When

  their breathing subsided she could hear the storm outside. Henry was

  heavy on top of her, but she did not want him to move: she liked his

  weight, and the faint tang of perspiration from his white skin. From

  time to time he moved his head to brush his lips against her cheek.

  He was the perfect man to have an affair with. He knew more about her

  body than she did. His own body was very beautiful: broad and muscular

  at the shoulders, narrow at the waist and hips, with long, strong,

  hairy legs. She thought he had some scars: she was not sure. Strong,

  gentle and handsome: perfect. Yet she knew she would never fall in

  love with him, never want to run away with him and marry him. Deep

  inside him, she sensed, there was something very cold and hard, some

  part of him that was committed elsewhere, a readiness to abandon

  commonplace emotions for some higher duty. He would never belong to

  any woman, for he had some other ultimate loyalty like a painter's art,

  a businessman's greed, a patriot's country, a socialist's revolution.

  She would have to hold him at arm's length, and use him cautiously,

  like an addictive drug.

  Not that she would have time to get hooked: he would be gone in little

  more than a day.

  She stirred at last, and immediately he rolled off her and on to his

  back. She lifted herself on one elbow and looked at his naked body.

  Yes, he did have scars: a long one on his chest, and a small mark like

  a star it might have been a burn on his hip. She rubbed his chest with

  the palm of her hand.

  "It's not very ladylike," she said, 'but I want to say thank you."

  He reached out to touch her cheek, and smiled.

  "You're very ladylike."

  "You don't know what you've done. You've ' He put a finger over her

  lips.

  "I know what I've done."

  She bit his finger, then put his hand on her breast. He felt for her

  nipple. She said: "Please do it again."

  "I don't think I can," he said.

  But he did.

  She left him a couple of hours after dawn. There was a small noise

  from the other bedroom, and she seemed suddenly to remember that she

  had a husband and a son in the house. Faber wanted to tell her that it

  didn't matter, that neither he nor she had the least reason to care

  what the husband knew or thought; but he held his tongue and let her

  go. She kissed him once more, very wetly; then she stood up, smoothed

  her rumpled nightgown over her body, and tiptoed out. He watched her

  fondly.

  She's quite something, he thought. He lay on his back and looked at

  the ceiling. She was quite naive, and very inexperienced, but all the

  same she had been very good. I could fall in love with her, he

  thought.

  He got up and retrieved the film can and the knife in its sheath from

  under the bed. He wondered whether to keep them on his person. He

  might want to make love to her in the day ... He decided to wear the

  knife he would feel undressed without it and leave the can somewhere.

  He put it on top of the chest-of-drawers and covered it with his paper

  sand his wallet. He knew that he was breaking all the rules; but this

  was sure to be his last assignment, and he felt entitled to enjoy a

  woman. It would hardly matter if someone saw the pictures what could

  they do?

  He lay down on the bed, then got up again. Years of training would not

  let him take risks. He put the can and his papers into the pocket of

  his jacket. Now he could relax.

  He heard the child's voice, then Lucy's tread as she went down the

  stairs, and then David dragging himself to the bathroom. He would have

  to get up and have breakfast with the household. He did not want to

  sleep now, anyway.

  He stood at the rain-streaked window, watching the weather rage, until

  he heard the bathroom door open. Then he put on his pyjama jacket and

  went in the shave. He used David's razor, without permission.

  It did not seem to matter now.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Erwin Rommel knew from the start that he was going to quarrel with

  Heinz Guderian.

  General Guderian was exactly the kind of aristocratic Prussian officer

  Rommel hated. He had known him for some time. They had both, in their

  early days, commanded the Goslar Jaeger Battalion, and they had met

  again during the Polish campaign. When Rommel left Africa he had

  recommended Guderian to succeed him, knowing the battle was lost: the

  manoeuvre was a failure because at that time Guderian had been out of

  favour with Hitler and the recommendation was rejected out of hand.

  The General was, Rommel felt, the kind of man who put a silk

  handkerchief on his knee to protect the crease in his trousers as he

  sat drinking in the Herrenklub. He was an officer because his father

  had been an officer and his grandfather had been rich. Rommel, the

  schoolteacher's son who had risen from Lieutenant-Colonel to Field

  Marshal in only four years, despised the military caste of which he

  had never been a member.

  Now he stared across the table at the General, who was sipping brandy

  appropriated from the French Rothschilds. Guderian and his sidekick,

  General von Geyr, had come to Rommel's headquarters at La Roche Guyon

  in Northern France to tell him how to deploy his troops. Rommel's

  reactions to such visits ranged from impatience to fury. In his view

  the General Staff were there to provide reliable intelligence and

  regular supplies, and he knew from his experience in Africa that they

  were incompetent at both tasks.

  Guderian had a cropped, fair moustache, and the corners of his eyes

  were heavily wrinkled so that he always appeared to be grinning at you.

  He was tall and handsome, which did nothing to endear him to the

  short, ugly, balding Rommel. He seemed relaxed, and any German general

  who could relax at this stage of the war was surely a fool. The meal

  they had just finished local veal and wine from farther south was no

  excuse.

  Rommel looked out of the window and watched the rain dripping from the

  lime trees into the courtyard while he waited for Guderian to begin the

&nb
sp; discussion. When eventually he spoke, it was clear the General had

  been thinking about the best way to make his point, and had decided to

  approach it sideways.

  "In Turkey," he began, 'the British 9th and 10th armies, with the

  Turkish army, are grouping at the border with Greece. In Yugoslavia,

  the partisans are also concentrating. The French in Algeria are

  preparing to invade the Riviera. The Russians appear to be mounting an

  amphibious invasion of Sweden. In Italy, the Allies are ready to march

  on Rome.

  "There are smaller signals: a general kidnapped in Crete; an

  Intelligence officer murdered at Lyon; a radar post attacked at Rhodes;

  an aircraft sabotaged with abrasive grease and destroyed at Athens; a

  commando raid on Sagvaag; an explosion in the oxygen factory at

  Boulogne-sur-Seine; a train derailed in the Ardennes; a petrol dump

  fired at Boussens ... I could go on.

  "The picture is clear. In occupied territories, there is ever226

  increasing sabotage and treachery; on our borders, everywhere we see

  preparations for invasion. None of us doubts that there will be a

  major Allied offensive this summer; and we can be equally sure that all

  this skirmishing is intended to confuse us about where the attack will

  come."