by Ken Follett
"Mm." Bloggs sounded dubious.
"If the U-boat is also waiting for the storm to clear, it will get
there first."
"You're right." Godliman lit a cigarette, fumbling for inspiration.
"Well, we can get a Navy corvette to circle the island and listen for
Faber's radio signal. When the storm clears it can land a boat on the
island. Yes, that's a good idea."
"What about some fighters ?"
"Yes. Although like you, they'll have to wait until the weather
breaks."
"It can't go on much longer."
"What do the Scottish meteorologists say?"
"Another day of it, at least."
"Damn."
"It doesn't make much difference," Bloggs said.
"All the time we're grounded he's bottled up."
"If he's there at all."
"Yes."
"All right," Godliman said.
"We'll have a corvette, the coast guard some fighters and an
amphibian."
"And me."
"You'd better get on your way. Call me from Rosyth. Take care."
"Cheerio."
Godliman hung up. His cigarette, neglected in the ashtray, had burned
down to a tiny stub. He lit another, then picked up the phone again
and began organizing.
TWENTY-NINE
Lying on its side, the jeep looked powerful but helpless, like a
wounded elephant. The engine had stalled. Faber gave it a hefty push
and it toppled majestically on to all four wheels. It had survived the
fight relatively undamaged. The canvas roof was destroyed, of course:
the rip Faber's knife had made had become a long tear running from one
side to the other. The offside front wing, which had ploughed into the
earth and stopped the vehicle, was crumpled. The headlight on that
side had smashed. The window on the same side had been broken by the
shot from the gun. The windscreen was miraculously intact.
Faber climbed into the driving seat, put the gearshift into neutral
and tried the starter. It kicked over and died. He tried again, and
the engine fired. He sighed with relief: he could not have faced a
long walk just then.
He sat in the car for a while, inventorying his wounds. He touched his
right ankle gingerly: it was swelling massively. Perhaps he had
cracked a bone. It was as well that the jeep was designed to be driven
by a man with no legs, for Faber could not have pressed a brake pedal.
The lump on the back of his head felt huge, the size of a golf ball;
and when he touched it his hand came away sticky with blood. He
examined his face in the driving mirror. It was a mass of small cuts
and big bruises, like the face of the loser at the end of a boxing
match.
He had abandoned his oilskin back at the cottage, so his jacket and
overalls were soggy with rain and smeared with mud. He needed to get
warm and dry very soon.
He gripped the steering wheel, and a burning pain shot through his
hand: he had forgotten the torn fingernail. He looked at it. It was
the nastiest of his injuries. He would have to drive one-handed.
He pulled away slowly and found what he guessed was the road. There
was no danger of getting lost on this island -all he had to do was
follow the cliff-edge until he came to Lucy's cottage.
He needed to invent a lie to explain to Lucy what had become of her
husband. He might, of course, tell her the truth: there was nothing
she could do about it. However, if she became awkward he might have to
kill her; and there had grown within him an aversion to killing Lucy.
Driving slowly along the cliff-top through the pouring rain and howling
wind, he marvelled at this new thing inside him, this scruple. It was
the first time he had ever felt reluctance to kill. It was not that he
was amoral: quite the contrary. He had made up his mind that the
killing he did was on the same moral level as death on the battlefield,
and his emotions followed his intellect. He always had the physical
reaction, the vomiting, after he killed, but that was something
incomprehensible which he ignored.
So why did he not want to kill Lucy?
The feeling was on a par with the affection which drove him to send
the Luftwaffe erroneous directions to St. Paul's Cathedral: a
compulsion to protect a thing of beauty. She was a remarkable
creation, as full of loveliness and subtlety as a work of art. Faber
could live with himself as a killer, but not as an iconoclast It was,
he recognized as soon as the thought occurred to him, a peculiar way to
be. But then, spies were peculiar people.
He thought of some of the spies who had been recruited by the Abwehr at
the same time as he: Otto, the Nordic giant who made delicate paper
sculptures in the Japanese fashion and hated women; Friedrich, the sly
little mathematical genius who jumped at shadows and went into a
five-day depression if he lost a game of chess; Helmut, who liked to
read books about slavery in America and had soon joined the SS ... all
different, all peculiar. If they had anything more specific in common,
he did not know what it was.
He seemed to be driving more and more slowly, and the rain and mist
became more impenetrable. He began to worry about the cliff-edge on
his left-hand side. He felt very hot, but suffered spasms of
shivering. He realized he had been speaking aloud about Otto and
Friedrich and Helmut; and he recognized the signs of delirium. He made
an effort to think of nothing but the problem of keeping the jeep on a
straight course. The noise of the wind took on some kind of rhythm,
becoming hypnotic. Once he found himself stationary, staring out over
the sea, and had no idea how long he had stopped.
It seemed hours later that Lucy's cottage came into view. He steered
toward it, thinking: I must remember to put the brake on before I hit
the wall. There was a figure standing in the doorway, looking at him
through the rain. He had to stay in control of himself long enough to
tell her the lie. He had to remember, had to remember... It was late
afternoon by the time the jeep came back. Lucy was worried about what
had happened to the men, and at the same time angry with them for not
coming home for the lunch she had prepared. As the day waned she had
spent more and more time at the windows, looking out for them.
When the jeep came down the slight slope to the cottage, it was clear
something was wrong. It was moving terribly slowly, weaving all over
the track, and there was only one person in it. It came closer, and
she saw that the front was dented and the headlamp smashed.
"Oh, God," she murmured.
The vehicle shuddered to a halt in front of the cottage, and she saw
that the figure inside was Henry. He made no move to get out. Lucy
ran out into the rain and opened the driver's door.
Henry sat there with his head back and his eyes half-closed. His hand
was on the brake. His face was bloody and bruised.
Lucy said: "What happened? What happened?"
Henry's hand slipped off the brake, and the jeep moved forward. Lucy
leaned across him and slipped the gearshift into n
eutral.
Henry said: "Left David at Tom's cottage... had crash on way back ..."
The words seemed to cost him a great effort.
Now that she knew what had happened, Lucy's panic subsided.
"Come inside," she said sharply. The urgency in her voice got through
to Henry. He turned toward her, put his foot on the running board to
step down, and promptly fell to the ground. Lucy saw that his ankle
was swollen like a balloon.
She got her hands under his shoulders and pulled him upright, saying:
"Put your weight on the other foot and lean on me." She got his right
arm around her neck and half-carried him inside.
Jo watched wide-eyed as she helped Henry into the living-room and got
him on to the sofa. He lay back with his eyes shut. His clothes were
soaked and muddy.
Lucy said: "Jo, go upstairs and get your pyjamas on, please."
"But I haven't had my story. Is he dead?"
"He's not dead, but he's had a car crash, and you can't have a story
tonight. Go on."
The child made a complaining sound, and Lucy looked threateningly at
him. He went.
Lucy got the big scissors out of her sewing basket and cut Henry
clothes away: first the jacket, then the overalls, then the shirt. She
frowned in puzzlement when she saw the knife in its sheath strapped to
his left forearm: she guessed it was a special implement for cleaning
fish, or something. When she tried to take it off, Henry pushed her
hand away. She shrugged, and turned her attention to his boots. The
left one came off easily, and its sock; but he cried out in pain when
she touched the right.
"It must come off," she told him.
"You'll have to be brave."
A funny kind of smile came over his face, then, and he nodded assent.
She cut the laces, took the shoe gently but firmly in both hands, and
pulled it off. This time he made no sound. She cut the elastic in the
sock and pulled that off too.
Jo came in and said: "He's in his pants!"
"His clothes are all wet." She kissed the boy goodnight. Tut yourself
to bed, darling. I'll tuck you up later."
"Kiss teddy, then."
"Goodnight, teddy."
Jo went out. Lucy looked back to Henry. His eyes were open, and he
was smiling. He said: "Kiss Henry, then."
She leaned over him and kissed his battered face. Then, carefully, she
cut away his underpants.
The heat from the fire would quickly dry his naked skin. She went into
the kitchen and filled a bowl with warm water and a little antiseptic
to bathe his wounds. She found a roll of cotton wool and returned to
the living-room.
"This is the second time you've turned up on the doorstep half dead,"
she said as she set about her task.
"The usual signal," Henry said.
What?"
Waiting at Calais for a phantom army."
Henry, what are you talking about?"
"Every Friday and Monday."
She realized he was delirious.
"Don't try to talk," she said. She lifted his head slightly to clean
away the dried blood from around the bump.
Suddenly he sat upright, looked fiercely at her, and said: "What day is
it? What day is it?"
"It's Sunday, relax."
"Okay."
He was quiet after that, and he let her remove the knife. She bathed
his face, bandaged his finger where he had lost the nail, and put a
dressing on his ankle. When she had finished she stood looking at him
for a while. He seemed to be sleeping. She touched the long scar on
his chest, and the star-shaped mark on his hip. The star was a
birthmark, she decided.
She went through his pockets before throwing the lacerated clothes
away. There wasn't much: some money, his papers, a leather wallet and
a film can. She put them all in a little pile on the mantelpiece
beside his fish knife. He would have to have some of David's
clothes.
She left him and went upstairs to see Jo. The boy was asleep, lying on
his teddy bear, with his arms outflung. She kissed his soft cheek and
tucked him in. She went outside and put the jeep in the barn.
She made herself a drink in the kitchen then sat watching Henry,
wishing he would wake up and make love to her again.
It was almost midnight when he awoke. He opened his eyes, and his face
showed the series of expressions which were now familiar to her: first
the fear, then the wary survey of the room, then the relaxation. On
impulse, she asked him: "What are you afraid of, Henry?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You always look frightened when you wake up."
"I don't know." He shrugged, and the movement seemed to hurt.
"God, I'm battered."
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"Yes, if you'll give me a small amount of brandy."
She got the brandy out of the cupboard.
"You can have some of David's clothes."
"In a minute... unless you're embarrassed."
She handed him the glass, smiling.
"I'm afraid I'm enjoying it."
"What happened to my clothes?"
"I had to cut them off you. I've thrown them away." Not my papers, I
hope." He smiled, but there was some other emotion just below the
surface.
"On the mantelpiece." She pointed.
"I suppose that knife is for cleaning fish, or something."
His right hand went to his left forearm, where the sheath had been.
"Something like that," he said. He seemed uneasy for a moment, then
relaxed with an effort and sipped his drink.
"That's good."
After a moment she said: "Well?"
"What?"
"How did you manage to lose my husband and crash my jeep?"
"David decided to stay over at Tom's for the night. Some of the sheep
got into trouble in a place they called the Gully-' "I know it."
'and six or seven of them were injured. They're all in Tom's kitchen,
being bandaged up and making a frightful row. Anyway, David suggested
I came back to tell you he would be staying. I don't really know how I
managed to crash. The car is unfamiliar, there's no real road, I hit
something and went into a skid, and the jeep ended up on its side. The
details ..." he shrugged.
"You must have been going quite fast you were in an awful mess when you
got here."
"I suppose I rattled around inside the jeep a bit. Banged my head,
twisted my ankle..."
"Lost a fingernail, bashed your face, and almost caught pneumonia. You
must be accident-prone."
He swung his legs to the floor, stood up, and went to the
mantelpiece.
Lucy said: "Your powers of recuperation are incredible."
He was strapping the knife to his arm.
"We fishermen are very healthy. What about those clothes?"
She got up and stood close to him. What do you need clothes for? It's
bedtime."
He drew her to him, pressing her against his naked body, and kissed her
hard. She stroked his thighs.
After a while he broke away from her. He picked up his things from
the mantelpiece, took her hand, then, hobbling, he led her upstairs to
&
nbsp; bed.
THIRTY
The wide, white autobahn snaked through the Bavarian valley up into the
mountains. In the leather rear seat of the staff Mercedes, Field
Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt was still and weary. Aged sixty-nine, he
knew he was too fond of champagne and not fond enough of Hitler. His
thin, lugubrious face reflected a career longer and more erratic than
that of any of Hitler's other officers: he had been dismissed in
disgrace more times than he could remember, but the Fuhrer always asked
him to come back.
As the car passed through the sixteenth-century village of
Berchtesgaden, he wondered why he always returned to his command when
Hitler forgave him. Money meant nothing to him: he had already
achieved the highest possible rank; decorations were valueless in the
Third Reich; and he believed that it was not possible to win honour in
