Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  intentions are wildly wrong. And yet!" He paused for effect.

  "And yet, despite all that, General Walter Bedell Smith Ike's Chief of

  Staff -tells me that..." He picked up another piece of paper from the

  table and read it aloud.

  "Our chances of holding the beachhead, particularly after the Germans

  get their buildup, are only fifty-fifty."

  He put his cigar down, and his voice became quite soft.

  "Itwill be June the fifth possibly the sixth or the seventh. The

  tides are right... it has been decided. The build-up of troops in the

  West Country has already begun. The convoys are even now making their

  way along the country roads of England. It has taken the total

  military and industrial might of the whole English-speaking world the

  greatest civilization since the Roman Empire four years to win this

  fifty-fifty chance. If this spy gets out, we lose even that."

  He stared at Godliman for a moment, then he picked up his pen with a

  frail white hand.

  "Don't bring me probabilities, Professor," he said.

  "Bring me the body of Die Nadel."

  He looked down and began to write. After a moment Percival Godliman

  got up and quietly left the room.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Cigarette tobacco burns at eight hundred degrees centigrade. However,

  the coal at the end of the cigarette is normally surrounded by a thin

  layer of ash. To cause a burn, the cigarette has to be pressed against

  the skin for the better part of a second: a glancing touch will hardly

  be felt. This applies even to the eyes, for blinking is the fastest

  involuntary reaction of the human body. Only amateurs throw

  cigarettes. Professionals there are just a few people in the world for

  whom hand-to-hand fighting is a professional skill ignore them.

  Faber ignored the lighted cigarette that David Rose threw at him. He

  did right, for the cigarette glanced off his forehead and fell to. the

  metal floor of the jeep. Then he made a grab for David's gun, and this

  was an error. He should have drawn his stiletto and stabbed David: for

  although David might have shot him first, he had never before pointed a

  gun at a human being, let alone killed somebody; so he would almost

  certainly have hesitated, and in that moment Faber could have killed

  him.

  The mistake cost dear.

  David had both hands on the midsection of the gun left hand on the

  barrel, right hand around the breech and had pulled the weapon about

  six inches from its rack when Faber got a one-handed grip on the

  muzzle. David tugged the gun the toward himself, but for a moment

  Faber's grasp held, and the gun pointed at the windscreen. Faber was a

  strong man, but David was exceptionally strong. His shoulders, arms

  and wrists had moved his body and his wheelchair for four years, and

  the muscles had become abnormally developed. Furthermore, he had both

  hands on the gun in front of him, and Faber was holding on with one

  hand at an awkward angle. David tugged again, more determinedly this

  time, and the muzzle slipped from Faber's grasp.

  At that instant, with the shotgun pointed at his belly and David's

  finger curling around the trigger, Faber felt very close to death.

  He jerked upwards, catapulting himself out of his seat. His head hit

  the canvas roof of the jeep as the gun exploded with a crash that

  numbed the ears and produced a physical pain behind the eyes. The

  window by the passenger seat shattered into innumerable small pieces

  and the rain blew in through the empty frame. Faber twisted his body

  and fell back, not on to his own seat, but across David. He got both

  hands to David's throat and squeezed with his thumbs.

  David tried to bring the gun around between their bodies to fire the

  other barrel, but the weapon was too big. Faber in looked into his

  eyes, and saw ... what was it? Exhilaration! Why Of course at last

  the man had a chance to fight for his country. Then his expression

  changed as his body felt the lack of nd oxygen and he began to fight

  for breath. l David released his grip on the gun and brought both el-

  ovel bows back as far as he could, then punched Faber's lower ribs with

  a powerful double jab. lber The pain was excruciating, and Faber

  screwed up his face in anguish, but he held his grip on David's throat.

  He knew he could withstand David's punches longer than David could on,

  hold his breath. ave David must have had the same thought. He crossed

  his forearms between their bodies and pushed Faber away; then, " when

  the gap was a few inches wide, he brought his hands upin an

  upward-and-outward blow against Faber's arms, breaking the

  stranglehold. He bunched his right fist and swung downwards with a

  mighty but unscientific punch which landed on Faber's cheekbone and

  brought water to his eyes.

  Faber replied with a series of body jabs; David continued to bruise his

  face. They were too close together to do real damage to each other in

  a short time, but David's greater strength began to tell.

  Grimly, Faber realized that David had shrewdly picked the time and

  place for the fight: he had had the advantages of surprise, the gun,

  and the confined space in which his muscle counted for much and Faber's

  better balance and greater manoeuvrability counted for little.

  Faber shifted his weight slightly and his hip came into contact with

  the gearshift, throwing the transmission into forward. The engine was

  still running, and the car jerked, putting him off balance. David took

  the opportunity to release a long straight left which more by luck than

  judgement -caught Faber full on the chin and threw him clear across the

  cab of the jeep. His head cracked against the A-post, he slumped with

  his shoulder on the door handle, the door opened, and he fell out of

  the car in a backward somersault to land on his face in the mud.

  For a moment he was too dazed to move. When he opened his eyes he

  could see nothing but flashes of blue lightning against a misty red

  background. He heard the engine of the jeep racing. He shook his

  head, desperately trying to clear the fireworks from his vision, and

  struggled on to his hands and knees. The sound of the jeep receded and

  came closer again. He turned his head toward the noise, and as the

  colours in front of his eyes dissolved and disappeared, he saw the

  vehicle bearing down on him at high speed. David was going to run him

  over.

  With the front bumper less than a yard from his face he hurled himself

  sideways. He felt a blast of wind. A fender struck his outflung foot

  as the jeep roared past, its heavy-gauge tyres tearing up the spongy

  turf and spitting mud. He rolled over twice in the wet grass, then got

  to one knee. Hisfoot hurt. He watched the jeep turn in a tight

  circle and come for him again.

  He could see David's face through the windscreen. The young man was

  leaning forward, hunched over the steering wheel, his lips drawn back

  over his teeth in a savage, almost maniacal grin. He seemed to be

  imagining himself in die cockpit of a Spitfire, coming down out of the

  sun at an enemy plane with all
eight Browning machine-guns blazing

  1,260 rounds per minute.

  Faber moved toward the cliff edge. The jeep gathered speed. Faber

  knew that, for a moment, he was incapable of running. He looked over

  the cliff: it was a rocky, almost vertical slope to the angry sea a

  hundred feet below. The jeep was coming straight down the cliff's edge

  toward him. Frantically, Faber looked up and down for a ledge, or even

  a foothold. There was none.

  The jeep was four or five yards away, travelling at something like

  forty miles per hour. Its wheels were less than two feet from the

  cliff's edge. Faber dropped flat and swung his legs out into space,

  supporting his weight on his forearms as he hung on the brink.

  The wheels passed him within inches. A few yards farther on, one tyre

  actually slipped over the edge. For a moment Faber thought the whole

  vehicle would slide over and fall into the sea below, but the other

  three wheels dragged the jeep to safety.

  The ground under Faber's arms shifted. The vibration of the jeep's

  passing had loosened the earth. He felt himself slip a fraction. One

  hundred feet below, a raging sea boiled among the rocks. Faber

  stretched one arm to its farthest extent and dug his fingers deep into

  the soft ground. He felt a nail tear, and ignored it. He repeated the

  process with his other arm. With two hands anchored in the earth he

  pulled himself upward. It was agonizingly slow, but eventually his

  head drew level with his hands, his hips reached firm ground, and he

  was able to swivel around and roll away from the edge.

  The jeep was turning again. Faber ran toward it. His foot was

  painful, but not broken. David accelerated for another pass. Faber

  turned and ran at right angles to the jeep's direction forcing David

  to turn the wheel and consequently slow down.

  Faber could not keep this up much longer. He was certain to tire

  before David. This had to be the last pass.

  He ran faster. David steered an interception course, headed for a

  point in front of Faber. Faber doubled back, and the jeep zigzagged.

  It was now quite close. Faber broke into a sprint, his course

  compelling David to drive in a tight circle. The jeep was getting

  slower and Faber was getting closer. There were only a few yards

  between them when David realized what Faber was up to. He steered

  away, but it was too late. Faber raced to the jeep's side and threw

  himself upwards, landing face down on top of the canvas roof.

  He lay there for a few seconds, catching his breath. His injured foot

  felt as if it was being held in a fire, and his lungs ached

  painfully.

  The jeep was still moving. Faber drew the stiletto from its sheath

  under his sleeve and cut a long, jagged tear in the canvas roof. The

  material flapped downwards and Faber found himself staring at the back

  of David's head.

  David looked up and back. A look of utter astonishment crossed his

  face. Faber drew back his arm for a knife thrust.

  David jammed the throttle open and heaved the wheel around. The jeep

  leaped forward and lifted on two wheels as it screeched around in a

  tight curve. Faber struggled to stay on. The jeep, gathering speed

  still, crashed down on to four wheels then lifted again. It teetered

  precariously for a few yards, then the wheels slipped on the sodden

  ground and the vehicle toppled on to its side with a grinding crash.

  Faber was thrown several yards and landed awkwardly. The breath was

  knocked out of him by the impact. It was several seconds before he

  could move.

  The jeep's crazy course had taken it perilously close to the cliff once

  more.

  Faber saw his knife in the grass a few yards away. He picked it up,

  then turned to the jeep.

  Somehow, David had got himself and his wheelchair out through the

  ripped roof, and he was now sitting in the chair and pushing himself

  away along the cliff edge. Faber had to acknowledge his courage.

  All the same, he had to die.

  Faber ran after him. David must have heard the footsteps, for just

  before Faber caught up the chair stopped dead and spun around; and

  Faber glimpsed a heavy spanner in David's hand.

  Faber crashed into the wheelchair, overturning it. His last thought

  was that both men and the chair might end up in the sea below then the

  spanner hit the back of his head and he blacked out.

  When he came to, the wheelchair lay beside him, but David was nowhere

  to be seen. He stood up and looked around in dazed puzzlement.

  "Here!"

  The voice came from over the cliff. David must have been flung from

  the chair and slid over the edge. Faber crawled to the cliff and

  looked over.

  David had one hand around the stem of a bush which grew just under the

  lip of the cliff. The other hand was jammed into a small crevice in

  the rock. He hung suspended, just as Faber had a few minutes earlier.

  His bravado had gone, and there was naked terror in his eyes.

  "Pull me up, for God's sake," he shouted hoarsely.

  Faber leaned closer.

  "How did you know about the pictures? "he said.

  "Help me, please!"

  "Tell me about the pictures."

  "Oh, God." David made a mighty effort to concentrate.

  "When you went to Tom's outhouse you left your jacket drying in the

  kitchen. Tom went upstairs for more whisky, and I went through your

  pockets. I found the negatives."

  "And that was evidence enough for you to try to kill me?" Faber said

  wonderingly.

  "That, and what you did with my wife in my house. No Englishman would

  behave like that."

  Faber could not help laughing.

  "Where are the negatives now?"

  "In my pocket."

  "Give them to me, and I'll pull you up."

  "You'll have to take them. I can't let go Faber lay flat on his stomach

  and reached down, under David's oilskin, to the breast pocket of his

  jacket. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as his fingers touched the film

  can and withdrew it. He looked at the films: they all seemed to be

  there. He put the can in the pocket of his jacket, buttoned the flap,

  and reached down to David again.

  He took hold of the bush David was clinging to and uprooted it with a

  savage jerk.

  David screamed: "No!" He scrabbled desperately for grip as his other

  hand slipped inexorably out of the crack in the rock.

  "It's not fair!" he screamed. Then his hand came away from the

  crevice.

  He seemed to hang in mid-air: then he dropped, faster and faster,

  bouncing twice against the cliff on his way down, until he hit the

  water with a huge splash.

  Faber watched for a while to make sure he did not come up again.

  "Not fair?" he murmured to himself.

  "Not fair? Don't you know there's a war on?"

  He looked down at the sea for some minutes. Once he thought he saw a

  flash of yellow oilskin on the surface, but it was gone before he could

  focus on it. There was just the sea and the rocks.

  Suddenly he felt terribly tired. His injuries penetrated his

  consciousness one by one:
the damaged foot, the bump on his head, the

  bruises all over his face. David Rose had been a fool, a braggart and

  a poor husband, and he had died screaming for mercy; but he had been a

  brave man too, and he had died for his country he had got his wish.

  Faber wondered whether his own death would be as good.

  At last he turned away from the cliff edge and walked back toward the

  overturned jeep.

  20TWENTY-EIGHT

  Percival Godliman felt refreshed, determined, even inspired.

  When he reflected on it, this made him uncomfortable. Pep-talks are

  for the rank-and-file, and intellectuals believe themselves immune from

  inspirational speeches. Yet, although he knew that the great man's

  performance had been carefully scripted, the crescendos and diminuendos

  of the speech predetermined like a symphony, nevertheless it had worked

  on him, as effectively as if he had been the captain of the school

  cricket team hearing last-minute exhortations from the games master.

  He got back to his office itching to do something.

  He dropped his brolly in the umbrella-stand, hung up his wet raincoat,

  and looked at himself in the mirror on the inside of the cupboard door.

  Without doubt something had happened to his face since he became one of

  England's spy-catchers. The other day he had come across a photograph