The old boy’s bright blue eyes fairly sparkled when he heard about Kuporovitch’s mission, and for the best part of an hour they discussed it. Then Sir Pellinore left them to go and see a friend of his who was attached to the Foreign Office. Later he brought the friend back to lunch with him, and afterwards they entered into a full council of ways and means.
The P.I.D. man knew Lacroix personally and expressed the greatest keenness to co-operate with him in sabotaging the Nazis and fermenting revolt in France. He said that he could arrange matters with the Admiralty for Gregory and Kuporovitch to be given transport across the Channel and landed at the little island off Saint Jacut on a suitable night; but the date could not yet be fixed as they would have to go into the question of tides. The moon need not worry them as it was not full again until the 20th of October, but it was essential that the landing should take place as near high water as possible and, as nearly as could be managed, midway between the hours of sunset and dusk, in order that the boat that took them across should get the maximum amount of cover from darkness in both approaching and leaving the French coast. Before leaving, he promised to let them know on the following day the best night for making their trip.
That night the two friends dined with Sir Pellinore. Brushing up his fine white military moustache, he cursed the Nazis roundly for having interfered with his kitchen arrangements; in spite of that, they did themselves extremely well, killed two magnums of Krug 1928 and, ignoring the bombers that droned overhead, had a great yarn about the war.
On the following day a note arrived for Gregory by D.R. from the P.I.D. man to say the tide would be full at Saint Jacut on October the 15th between 11.30 and midnight. It would have been better if they could have made their landing an hour or so later, but to do that meant postponing the venture for another two or three days, and that would bring them into the period of the full moon, so they would either have to risk a rather early arrival, while a certain number of people on the coast might not yet have turned in, or put the whole business off until the moon had waned and the tide was suitable again, which was not before the end of the month.
Gregory and Kuporovitch agreed that they must not delay a single day longer than necessary, owing to the Russian’s long enforced halt at Lisbon, as, even if they sailed on the 15th, it would be just on a month since he had set out from Vichy. They went to see Sir Pellinore, and it was definitely decided that everything should be fixed for the night of the 15th.
As they had six days to spare Sir Pellinore suggested that they should spend them at Gwaine Meads with Erika. Anxious as he was to do so, Gregory expressed certain qualms at leaving his fire-fighting squad while the blitz was still in progress.
‘Nonsense, my boy! Nonsense!’ boomed the baronet. ‘You’re unofficially back in the Services now, and this is your embarkation leave. Once you get over to the other side God alone knows when you’ll see that young woman of yours again. There are more people still in London than there are in the whole British Army, and if they can’t look after their own city they deserve that it should burn. If I had a plane and a load of incendiary bombs I’d drop the whole lot on the Home Office myself; then perhaps the nitwits who run it would wake up to the fact that there’s a war on and make fire-watching compulsory. You’re under my orders. They are to pack your bags and get off to Wales.’
Gregory demurred no longer and with Kuporovitch left Paddington on the night-train.
Erika was overjoyed to see them both, and for the next few days they almost managed to forget the war with all its horrors and wearisome inconveniences. The staff of the lovely old Tudor mansion had been greatly cut down, and one wing of it was now a convalescent hospital for Air Force officers; but apart from occasional German planes passing high overhead at night to bomb Liverpool, and the sight of the blue-uniformed invalids sitting about the lovely garden when the weather was fine, there were no traces at all of the war. Instead of being two hundred miles away from grim determined London, they might easily have been two thousand, and they lived on the fat of the land from the products of the home-farm.
The wounds in Erika’s chest where she had been shot five months before were now entirely healed, but she was still weak from her long illness and had a rather nasty cough as a result of the injury to her lung; but she insisted that she was already as good as well again and that as soon as she was strong enough she meant to take up work which Sir Pellinore had said that he could get for her—translating the contents of German newspapers for the Foreign Office.
Little was said of the mission upon which the two men were going, and Erika made a brave show of hiding her fears from Gregory. Her illness had, if possible, made her more beautiful than ever, and Kuporovitch could see from the way Gregory looked at her that he adored her more than words could express. Although her body was still weak, her fine brain and shrewd wit were as quick as ever, and for hours at a stretch they succeeded in putting the war away from them while they laughed a lot together; yet always in the background of their thoughts was the knowledge that this was only a brief respite. There could be no real peace or prolonged happiness for any of them until the gangsters who threatened Britain and now held a hundred and forty million wretched people prisoner upon the Continent had been utterly destroyed.
At last, on the morning of the 15th, the final good-byes had been said, and Erika waved them away from the doorstep of the old manor-house, with her heart almost bursting, but no tears showing in her deep blue eyes. It was not until the car that was taking them into Shrewsbury had disappeared round the bend of the avenue of great limes that, stuffing the edge of her handkerchief between her teeth, she ran back into the house to give way to a passion of tears.
While in Wales, Gregory and Kuporovitch had received French money, French clothes of a rough-and-ready variety, cartes d’identité purporting to have been issued in Paris, and their final instructions; and most of the day was spent in a rather tiring cross-country journey down to Weymouth, which being the nearest port to Saint Jacut, had been selected for their embarkation. At four o’clock they reported to the naval officer commanding there. He passed them on to a Lieutenant Commander, who gave them a high tea in the mess, and immediately afterwards took them past the sentries on to a jetty, at the end of which a long, low, seagoing motor-boat was in readiness.
It was still full daylight, and dusk was not due for another hour or more, but for that time they would have the protection of the Naval Coast Patrol; and it was essential to make an early start if they were to arrive off Saint Jacut by half past eleven. The Lieutenant Commander introduced them to an R.N.V.R. lieutenant named Cummings, who was in charge of the launch. He was a fat, cheerful fellow, who before the war had been a keen yachtsman and knew the coast of Brittany well; and it was for that reason he had been selected to run them across. There were no formalities to be observed, so as soon as Gregory and Kuporovitch had installed themselves in the small cabin of the launch it cast off and with gathering speed slid out of the harbour.
The sea was moderately calm, but at the speed they were making the boat bumped a lot as she snaked through the little wave-crests, from which a constant spray flew over her. Fortunately, both passengers were good sailors, so they felt no ill-effects, apart from the strain of the constant rocking, since both of them had hoped to sleep for the best part of their six- or seven-hour journey in order that they might arrive fresh at its end; but that proved impossible, as their cramped quarters did not permit of enough space to lie down, or even to curl up in moderate comfort.
The coast of England dropped behind until it was only a grey smudge on the horizon and then became lost in the falling twilight. Gradually the stars came out, and a sickle moon came up, intermittently obscured by passing clouds. Hour after hour the launch scurried on, its diesel engine purring rhythmically. There was a great sense of loneliness there, in the little boat out on the dark waters.
For some reason he could not explain Gregory felt depressed. He thought that was due to his having
so recently left Erika, yet if all went well he should be back in England quite soon, as he had been furnished with papers, now sewn into the soles of his shoes, which would secure him priority on a plane from Lisbon once he had seen Lacroix. Nothing had been overlooked in their arrangements at either end, as Lacroix could be relied on to handle the French part of the business, and if his man Henri Denoual, did his share, there should be no delay in their reaching Paris.
Even if he did not, Gregory had no doubts at all about his own ability to get there. They might have the bad luck to run into a German coast patrol, but that was unlikely since it was quite impossible for the Germans to keep an adequate watch at night along all the thousands of miles of indented coast between northern Norway and the Pyrenees. Had any considerable force attempted a landing it would soon have been detected, and in no time German armoured forces could be rushed up to cope with it, but one small boat was a very different matter, particularly as the moon would be well down at the time of their arrival. He had undertaken far more hazardous adventures before and had always felt an exhilarating excitement when about to set out on them; but somehow this time that was altogether lacking, and he had an unpleasant foreboding of which he could not rid himself that trouble lay in front of them.
At eleven o’clock the bulky Cummings came down to say that they had picked up the Brittany coast and were now making their way along it. His navigation proved excellent, as ten minutes later he fetched them from the cabin and pointed to a dark mound ahead, which rose out of the seas, vaguely silhouetted between two others against the lesser blackness of the night sky.
‘There’s your island,’ he said. ‘I’ve often sailed these waters in the piping times of peace, and I’d know that mass of rocks between the two headlands anywhere. Nobody seems to be about, thank God, but we’d better lay off for a bit until the tide runs as high as we can get it.’
Farther to the east they could see the beams of the searchlights sweeping the sea outside Saint Malo, and the next twenty minutes proved anxious ones as there was always a possibility that the Germans had mounted searchlights upon the headland of Saint Jacut, which might suddenly blaze out and catch the boat in their beams. If that happened it was a certainty that within a few seconds of their being spotted a coastal battery would begin to roar, and it was ten to one that they would be sunk there in the bay long before they were able to get away out to the open sea.
However, all remained quiet and no lights appeared. At eleven-thirty to the tick the boat was very gently beached on a sandy spit which ran out from the northern end of the island. Having shaken hands with the lieutenant and wished him a safe return, the two friends slipped overboard into the shallow water.
Once ashore they shook as much water off their legs as they could, then cautiously proceeded inland. Soon they came to great rocky boulders, with smaller slabs between them, over which, suppressing their curses, they slipped and slithered, as they dared not show a torch, and among the piles of big rocks the darkness was absolutely pitch. The tangle of stone sloped gently upwards for about a quarter of a mile, then it became interspersed with patches of rough sandy soil. The stars were now hidden by clouds, so there was no longer sufficient light to keep the great pile of rock in the centre of the island constantly in view. For some minutes they lost their way, curving off to the left-hand side of it; but finding that the ground sloped down again they turned and headed in a new direction. This brought them to still higher ground, and soon afterwards they stumbled into a small cultivated patch.
The clouds parted for a moment and to their relief they could now just make out the ruins of the old castle. It was on the landward side of the biggest mass of rocks, but in the old days the top of its single tower would have given a sentinel an uninterrupted view over the whole bay and far out to sea. To one side of the tower a biggish portion of the ruin had a sloping roof, and this was evidently the part that Henri Denoual had patched up to make a home for himself.
As they moved silently towards it the clouds closed again, but they now caught the faint sounds of music. Approaching a little farther, they paused to listen. Evidently Denoual, or one of his family, was no mean artist, as the music was a violin solo. Going forward again, they moved round a corner of the high stone wall and saw some thin streaks of light showing the position of the door.
The ever-cautious Gregory got out his automatic and turned back the safety-catch; then, with a muttered, ‘Well, here goes!’ he knocked.
The violin solo ceased abruptly. There was a shuffling of feet; the door was suddenly flung wide open. The place consisted of a lofty barn, but, temporarily dazzled by the brightness of the light, they could not see any details. Gregory only knew that his dark forebodings had been justified. The room was packed with German soldiers.
8
Henri Denoual’s Island
The faculty to which Gregory had owed his life on a score of occasions was not physical strength, although his lean body was as tough as whipcord, nor was it any remarkable degree of brain-power, although he was moderately well-equipped in that direction. It was much more his capacity for extraordinarily clear thinking and ability to form instant decisions.
They had walked slap into a trap. Evidently Henri Denoual had been found out by either the Gestapo or the Military Intelligence of the German coastal garrisons. It could not be coincidence that this lonely ruin, which he had converted into a home, was full of enemy troops. The island was a small one, and had there been either gun positions or searchlights mounted upon it the discipline of the German Army was far too good for these men to have left them entirely unmanned or protected by sentries. The night was still, with no sound but a quiet sea murmuring gently on the beaches. Had there been enemy emplacements anywhere among the rocks, he and Kuporovitch could hardly have failed to catch the sound of the voices or footsteps of the men on duty at them. He felt certain that the island was absolutely deserted except for the soldiers in the barn.
Therefore it could not be that Henri Denoual’s ruin had simply been taken over, and these troops were employed upon ordinary coast defence duties. It must be that the Germans had discovered that the place was being used as a rendezvous for secret agents and had put a squad of men into it to lie doggo there each night and arrest anybody who might arrive to see Denoual.
It followed that it would be quite useless for the midnight visitors to try to pass themselves off as old friends of Denoual’s who did not know that he no longer lived there and had come to pay him a casual call, or to pretend that they were amateur fishermen whose boat had struck a rock and sunk in the shallows, casting them upon the island. No story of that kind, however plausible, would secure their release, now that they had blundered into these Germans. They could only be there for the purpose of arresting anyone who came to the place and passing them straight on to the Gestapo.
In less time than it takes to flick on a cigarette lighter Gregory had sized up the situation and faced the fact that their only chance of escape lay in shooting their way out. Kuporovitch was some paces behind him, so there was at least a chance he might get away in the darkness.
With a shout of ‘Run, Stefan, run!’ he thrust forward the automatic he had been holding behind his back. As he squeezed the trigger the gun spurted with flame, and the roar of its shots shattered the midnight stillness.
The glare from the open doorway still dazzled Gregory, so he was unable to take deliberate aim. He fired into the centre of the little crowd of grey-green uniformed men who had come hurriedly to their feet as the door was flung open. One man screamed, another fell with a heavy thud; the rest scattered in confusion. But Gregory himself, standing right in the middle of the doorway, was an easy target. Some of the men had already grabbed up their weapons. A pistol cracked, and a bullet flew past his ear. Next second someone hurled a heavy three-legged stool at him. It caught him full in the chest, and he went over backwards, his pistol flying from his hand.
Yelling to his men to follow him, a young Leutnant flung h
imself through the doorway at the fallen Gregory; but Kuporovitch was not the man to leave a comrade in distress. Instead of taking advantage of Gregory’s warning shout to run off into the darkness, he had swiftly side-stepped out of the lane of light streaming from the open door and drawn his gun—ready for action.
As the Leutnant leapt Kuporovitch fired. His bullet took the German slap between the eyes, and he was already dead when he fell on top of Gregory. A second man sprang through the doorway, but Kuporovitch got him too with a bullet through the side of the neck, which tore open his jugular vein. Even as he clawed at the wound his life-blood was pouring from it.
The heavy casualties they had suffered in this very first minute of the fracas made the remaining Germans more cautious, and as Gregory struggled out from underneath the dead Leutnant he saw that the doorway was now empty. All the others had taken temporary cover behind the thick walls at its sides; but he knew that at any second they might start to fire blind at an oblique angle through it, and he was too old a hand to risk death from a stray bullet. Instead of getting to his feet, he turned over on his tummy and began to wriggle swiftly away. It was just as well that he had adopted these tactics, as he had hardly covered a couple of yards before the barrels of two tommy-guns were thrust out, one from each side of the door. With a hideous clatter they sent streams of bullets in a lateral spray waist-high across the open ground.
Fortunately, Kuporovitch had already gone down on one knee, and the second the guns opened he flung himself flat. He had barely done so when Gregory reached him. Side by side, still on their tummies, they began to wriggle backwards away from the open door as quickly as they could. They had covered some thirty yards when a head appeared round one side of the door brightly silhouetted against the light, Kuporovitch paused for a moment, rested his elbow on the ground, took careful aim, and fired. There was a loud clang as his bullet struck the German’s tin hat, and the head was instantly withdrawn.
V for Vengeance Page 12
