Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  microphone. He was about to speak when the noise came. Immediately

  afterwards the lights on the dials of the wireless set went out.

  His face suffused with anger. She had short-circuited the electricity

  supply to the whole house. He had not credited her with that much

  ingenuity.

  He should have killed her before. What the hell was wrong with him? He

  had never hesitated, not ever, until he met this woman.

  He picked up one of the guns and went downstairs.

  The child was crying. Lucy lay in the kitchen doorway, out cold. Faber

  took in the empty light socket with the chair beneath it. He frowned

  in amazement.

  She had done it with her hand.

  Faber said: "Jesus Christ Almighty."

  Lucy's eyes opened. She hurt all over.

  Henry was standing over her with the gun in his hands. He said: Why

  did you use your hand? Why not a screwdriver?"

  She said: "I didn't know you could do it with a screwdriver."

  He shook his head in incredulity.

  "You are a truly astonishing woman," he said. He lifted the gun, aimed

  it at her, and lowered it again.

  "Damn you!"

  His gaze went to the window, and he started.

  "You saw it," he said.

  She nodded.

  He stood tense for a moment, then he went to the door. Finding it

  nailed shut, he smashed the window with the butt of his gun and climbed

  out.

  Lucy got to her feet. Jo threw his arms around her legs. She did not

  feel strong enough to pick him up. She staggered to the window and

  looked out.

  Henry was running toward the cliff. The U-boat was still there,

  perhaps half a mile offshore. Henry reached the cliff edge and crawled

  over. He was going to try to swim to the submarine.

  Lucy had to stop him.

  Dear God, no more, she prayed.

  She climbed through the window, blotting out the cries of her son, and

  ran after Henry.

  When she reached the cliff edge she lay dowp and looked over He was

  about half way between her and the sea. He looked up and saw her,

  froze for a moment, and then began to move faster, dangerously fast.

  Her first thought was to climb down after him. But what would she do

  then? Even if she caught him, she could not stop him.

  The ground beneath her shifted slightly. She scrambled back, afraid it

  would give way and throw her down the cliff.

  That gave her an idea.

  She thumped on the rocky ground with both fists. It seemed to shake a

  little more, and a crack appeared. She got one hand over the edge and

  thrust the other into the crack. A piece of earthy chalk the size of a

  watermelon came away in her hands.

  She looked over the edge and sighted Henry.

  She took careful aim and dropped the stone.

  It seemed to fall very slowly. He saw it coming, and covered his head

  with his arm. It looked as if it would miss him.

  The rock passed within a couple of inches of his head, and hit his left

  shoulder. He was holding on with his left hand. He seemed to loosen

  his grip. He balanced precariously for a moment. The right hand, the

  injured one, scrabbled for a hold. Then he appeared to lean out, away

  from the face of the rock, arms windmilling, until his feet slipped

  from their narrow ledge and he was suddenly in mid-air, suspended; and

  finally he dropped like a stone to the rocks below.

  He made no sound.

  He landed on a flat rock that jutted above the surface of the water.

  The noise his body made hitting the rock was sickening. He lay there

  on his back like a broken doll, arms out-flung, head at an impossible

  angle.

  Something vile seeped out from inside him on to the stone, and Lucy

  turned away.

  She had killed him.

  Everything happened at once, then.

  There was a roaring sound from the sky and three aircraft with R.A.F

  circles on their wings flew out of the clouds and dipped low over the

  U-boat, their guns blazing.

  3H

  Four sailors came up the hill toward the house at a jogtrot, one of

  them shouting "Left-right-left-right-left-right."

  Another plane landed on the sea, a dinghy emerged, and a man in a

  life-jacket began to row toward the cliff.

  A small ship came around the headland and steamed aggressively toward

  the U-boat.

  The U-boat submerged.

  The dinghy bumped into the rocks at the foot of the cliff, and the man

  got out and examined the body of Henry.

  A boat she recognized as the coast guard cutter appeared.

  One of the sailors came up to her and said: "Are you all right, love?

  Only there's a little girl in the cottage crying for her mummy."

  "It's a boy," Lucy said.

  "I must cut his hair." And for no reason at all she smiled.

  Bloggs steered the dinghy toward the body at the foot of the cliff. The

  boat bumped against the rock, and he scrambled out and on to the flat

  surface.

  It was Die Nadel.

  He was very dead. His skull had smashed like a glass goblet when he

  hit the rock. Looking more closely, Bloggs could see that the man had

  been somewhat battered even before the fall: his right hand was

  mutilated and there was something wrong with his ankle.

  Bloggs searched the body. The stiletto was where he had guessed it

  might be: in a sheath strapped to the left forearm. In the inside

  pocket of the expensive-looking, bloodstained jacket, Bloggs found a

  wallet, papers, money, and a little film can containing twenty-four

  35mm photographic negatives. He held them up to the strengthening

  light: they were the negatives of the prints found in the envelopes

  Faber had sent to the Portuguese Embassy.

  The sailors on the cliff top threw down a rope. Bloggs put Faber's

  possessions into his own pockets, then tied the rope around the corpse.

  They hauled it up, then sent the rope down for Bloggs.

  When he got to the top one of the sailors said: "You left his brains on

  the rock, but never mind."

  The sub-lieutenant introduced himself, and they walked across to the

  little cottage on top of the hill.

  "We haven't touched anything, for fear of destroying evidence," the

  senior sailor said.

  "Don't worry too much," Bloggs told him.

  "There won't be a prosecution."

  They had to enter the house through the broken kitchen window. The

  woman was sitting at a table, with the child on her lap. Bloggs smiled

  at her. He could not think of anything to say.

  He looked quickly around the little cottage. It was a battlefield. He

  saw the nailed-up windows, the barred doors, the remains of the fire,

  the dog with its throat cut, the shotguns, the broken bannister, and

  the axe embedded in the' window-sill beside two severed fingers.

  He thought: What kind of woman is she?

  He set the sailors to work: one to tidy the house and unbar the doors

  and windows; another to mend the blown fuse; a third to make tea.

  He sat down in front of the woman and looked at her. She was dressed

  in ill-fitting, mannish clothes; her hair was wet; her face was dirty.

  Despite al
l that she was remarkably beautiful, with lovely amber eyes

  in an oval face.

  Bloggs smiled at the child and spoke very gently to the woman.

  "What you've done is enormously important to the war," he said.

  "One of these days I'll explain just how important it is. But for now,

  I have to ask you two questions. Is that okay?

  Her eyes focused on him, and after a moment she nodded.

  "Did the man Faber succeed in contacting the U-boat by radio?"

  The woman just looked blank.

  Bloggs found a toffee in his trousers pocket.

  "Can I give the boy a sweet?" he asked.

  "He looks hungry."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Now: did Faber contact the U-boat?"

  "His name was Henry Baker," she said.

  "Ah. Well, did he?"

  "No. I short-circuited the electricity."

  That was smart," Bloggs said.

  "How did you do it?"

  She pointed at the empty light socket above them.

  "Screwdriver, eh?"

  "No." She smiled thinly.

  "I wasn't that smart. Fingers."

  He gave her a look of horror. The thought of deliberately ... He shook

  himself. It was ghastly. He put it out of his mind.

  "Right. Do you think anyone on the U-boat could have seen him coming

  down the cliff?"

  The effort of concentration showed on her face.

  "Nobody came out of the hatch," she said.

  "Could they have seen him through their periscope?"

  "No," he said confidently.

  "This is good news. It means they don't know he's been captured and

  ... neutralized. Anyway ..." He changed the subject hastily.

  "You've been through as much as men on the front line are expected to

  suffer. We're going to get you and the boy to a hospital on the

  mainland."

  "Yes," she said.

  Bloggs addressed the senior sailor.

  "Is there any form of transport around?"

  "Yes a jeep down in that little stand of trees."

  "Good. Will you drive these two over to the jetty and get them on to

  your boat?"

  "Surely."

  "Treat them gently."

  "Of course."

  Bloggs turned to the woman again. He felt an overwhelming surge of

  affection and admiration for her. She looked frail and helpless, now:

  but he knew she was brave and strong as well as beautiful. Impulsively,

  he took her hand.

  "When you've been in hospital a day or two, you'll begin to feel

  terribly depressed. That's a sign you're getting better. I won't be

  far away, and the doctors will tell me. I'll want to talk to you some

  more. But not before you feel like it. Okay?"

  At last she smiled at him, and it felt like the warmth of a fire.

  "You're kind," she said.

  She stood up and carried her child out of the house.

  "Kind?" Bloggs muttered to himself.

  "God's truth, what a woman."

  He went upstairs to the radio and tuned it to the Royal Observer Corps

  frequency.

  "Storm Island calling, over."

  "Come in, Storm Island."

  "Patch me through to London."

  "Hold on." There was a long pause, then a familiar voice.

  "Godliman."

  "Percy. We caught the... smuggler. He's dead."

  "Marvellous, marvelous." There was triumph in Godli-man's voice.

  "Did he manage to contact his partner ?"

  "Almost certainly not."

  Well done, well done!"

  "Don't congratulate me," Bloggs said.

  "By the time I got here it was all over bar the tidying up."

  "Who killed him, then?"

  "The woman."

  "Well, I'm damned. What's she like?"

  Bloggs grinned.

  "She's a hero, Percy."

  Godliman laughed aloud.

  "I think I know what you mean."

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hitler stood at the panoramic window, looking out at the mountains. He

  wore his dove-grey uniform, and he looked tired and depressed. He had

  called his physician during the night.

  Admiral Puttkamer saluted and said: "Good morning, my Fuhrer."

  Hitler turned and peered closely at his aide-de-camp. Those beady eyes

  never failed to unnerve Puttkamer. Hitler said: "Was Die Nadel picked

  up?"

  "No. There was some trouble at the rendezvous the English police were

  chasing smugglers. It appears Die Nadel was not there, anyway. He

  sent a wireless message a few minutes ago." He proffered a sheet of

  paper.

  Hitler took it from him, put on his spectacles, and began to read:

  YOUR RENDEZVOUS INSECURE YOU CUNTS I AM WOUNDED AND TRANSMITTING LEFT

  HANDED FIRST UNITED STATES ARMY GROUP ASSEMBLED EAST ANGLIA UNDER

  PATTON ORDER OF BATTLE AS FOLLOWS TWENTY ONE INFANTRY DIVISIONS FIVE

  ARMOURED DIVISIONS APPROXIMATELY FIVE THOUSAND AIRCRAFT PLUS

  REQUISITE

  TROOPSHIPS IN THE WASH FUSAG WILL ATTACK CA LAIS JUNE FIFTEENTH

  REGARDS

  TO WILLI

  Hitler handed the message back to Puttkamer and sighed.

  "So it's Calais after all."

  "Can we be sure of this man?" the aide asked.

  "Absolutely." Hitler turned and walked across the room to a chair. His

  movements were stiff, and he seemed in pain.

  "He is a loyal German. I know his family."

  "But your instinct..."

  "Ach ... I said I would trust this man's report, and so I shall." He

  made a gesture of dismissal.

  "Tell Rommel and Rundstedt they can't have their panzers. And send in

  that damned doctor."

  Puttkamer saluted again and went out to' relay the orders.

  EPILOGUE

  THIRTY-NINE

  When Germany defeated England in the quarter-final of the 1970 World

  Cup soccer tournament Grandpa was furious.

  He sat in front of the colour television set and muttered through his

  beard at the screen.

  "Cunning!" he told the assorted experts who were now dissecting the

  game.

  "Cunning and stealth! That's the way to defeat the Hun!"

  He would not be mollified until his grandchildren arrived. Jo's white

  Jaguar drew up on the drive of the modest three-bedroom house, and

  little David rushed in to sit on Grandpa's lap and pull his beard. The

  rest of the family followed more sedately: Rebecca, David's little

  sister; then Jo's wife Ann; then Jo himself, prosperous-looking in a

  suede jacket. Grandma came out of the kitchen to greet them.

  Jo said: "Did you watch the football, Pop?"

  "Terrible," Grandpa said.

  "We were rubbish." Since he retired from the Force and had more

  leisure time, he had taken an interest in sport.

  Jo scratched his moustache.

  "The Germans were better," he said.

  "They play good football. We can't win it every time."

  "Don't talk to me about bloody Germans," Grandpa said.

  Jo grinned.

  "I do a lot of business with Germany."

  Grandma's voice came from the kitchen.

  "Don't start him off, Jo!" She pretended to be going deaf, but there

  was not much she missed.

  "I know," Grandpa said.

  "Forgive and forget, and drive round in a bloody Audi."

  "Good cars."

  "Cunning and stealth, that's the way to defeat the Hun," Grandpa
<
br />   repeated. He addressed the grandson on his lap, who was not really his

  grandson, since Jo was not his son.

  "That's the way we beat them in the war, Davy we tricked them."