Night Of The Fox

by Jack Higgins

  Sarah took his arm. "What's this for?"

  "Something to remember me by."

  It made her feel uneasy and she held his arm even more tightly. The young soldier took the photo. "Another," Martineau called in German, "just to make sure."

  The boy returned the camera, smiling shyly, then saluted and walked away. "Did you tell him who you were?" she asked.

  "Of course I did." He took her arm. "Let's get going. I've got things to do." They crossed the railway track and returned to the Kubelwagen.

  Karl Muller prided himself on his control, his remarkable lack of emotion in all situations. He thought of it as his greatest asset, and yet, standing by the window in his office at the Silvertide Hotel, it almost deserted him for the first time.

  "You what?" he demanded.

  Heist's face was in a dreadful state, flesh around the eyes purple and dark, the broken nose swollen. "A misunderstanding, Herr Captain."

  Muller turned to Greiser. "And that's your version also? A misunderstanding?"

  "We were only questioning the girl, Herr Captain. She panicked, then Gallagher arrived. He placed entirely the wrong construction on the affair."

  "As your face proves, Willi," Muller said. "And Vogel was involved."

  "He arrived on the scene at an unfortunate moment," Greiser told him.

  "And he also placed entirely the wrong construction on things." Muller was furious. "Leaving me to get you off the hook when he turns up here this afternoon. Go on, get out of my sight!"

  He turned to the window and slammed his palm against the wall.

  Following Sarah's instructions, Martineau drove along Gloucester Street

  past the prison. "One thing," he said. "When we're together in the town speak French. You never know who's listening, understand?"

  "Of course."

  They could hear music now and turned into the Parade to find a German military band playing on the grass between the statue of General Don, a previous governor of the island, and the Cenotaph. There was quite a crowd standing listening, mainly civilians with a few soldiers.

  "Just like Workers' Playtime on the BBC back in the UK," Martineau said. "Supposed to make people feel better about being occupied."

  "Pull in here," she said. "The Town Hall is just at the end."

  He parked at the curb and they got out, people turning to stare curiously, attracted by the sight of the military vehicle. Many seemed indifferent, but there were those unable to hide their anger when they looked at Sarah, especially the older women.

  Someone muttered. "Gerrybag!" as they walked past. It was an ugly word meant to express the contempt most people felt for a girl who consorted with the enemy. Martineau swung around, Vogel to the life, and confronted the gray-haired woman who had spoken.

  "You said something, madam?" he asked in English.

  She was immediately terrified. "No—not me. You're mistaken." She turned and hurried away in a panic.

  Sarah took his arm and said softly, "There are times when I hate you myself, Harry Martineau."

  They passed the entrance of the Town Hall with the Nazi flag flying above and a Luftwaffe sentry on the steps with a rifle. They crossed to the other side of York Street

  and came to Charing Cross. Some of the shop windows were still taped to avoid flying glass, probably from the first year of the war. The Luftwaffe had bombed St. Helier once in 1940. It was obviously the last thing the RAF intended to do, which probably explained why a lot of shopkeepers had cleaned the tape off.

  They pause at a doorway between two shops. The sign indicated that the hairdresser was upstairs. Sarah said, "I remember this place."

  "Would you be recognized?"

  "I shouldn't think so. The last time I was in here was to have my hair cut when I was ten years old."

  She led the way up the stairs, pushed open a door with a frosted glass pane and Martineau followed her in. It was only a small salon with two washbasins and a couple of hairdriers. The woman who sat in the corner reading a magazine was about forty with a round, pleasant face. She glanced up smiling, and then the smile was wiped clear away.

  "Yes?" she said.

  "I need my hair fixed rather badly," Sarah said in French.

  "I don't speak French," the woman replied. Martineau said in English, "The young lady was a passenger on the Victor Hugo from Granville last night. As I am sure you are aware of the fate of that unhappy vessel, you will appreciate that she was in the water for some time. As she has no English I must speak for her. Her hair, as you can see, requires attention."

  "I can't help. I'm booked up."

  Martineau looked around the empty salon. "So I see. Your identity card, if you please."

  "Why should I? I've done nothing."

  "Would you rather continue this conversation at Silvertide?"

  There was fear in her eyes. Sarah had never felt so wretched in her life and waited as the unfortunate woman found her handbag and produced the identity card. It was in the name of Mrs. Emily Johnson. Martineau examined it and handed it back.

  "My name is Vogel—Standartenführer Max Vogel. I have an appointment at the Town Hall with Colonel Heine, the commandant. I'll be gone for an hour, perhaps a little longer. While I am away you will do whatever is necessary to the young lady's hair. When I return, I am sure it will look quite delightful." He opened the door. "If it doesn't, I'll close this establishment so fast you won't know what's hit you."

  They listened to him descend the stairs. Mrs. Johnson took a robe down from behind the door and turned to Sarah with a delightful smile. "All right, you dirty little French tart. Let's make you look pretty for that butcher," she said in English. Her smile became even more charming. "And I can only hope you get what you deserve."

  Sarah felt like cheering her out loud. Instead she stayed in control and replied in French, "Ah, the coat."

  She took it off, handed it to her, put on the robe and went to the nearest chair.

  As Martineau crossed to the Town Hall he saw a policeman in traditional British bobby's uniform and helmet standing on the steps talking to the sentry. They stopped talking, watching him warily as he approached.

  "Standartenführer Vogel for the commandant."

  The sentry jumped to attention and the police constable faded away discreetly. "The commandant arrived twenty minutes ago, Standartenführer."

  Martineau moved into the hall and found a table at the bottom of the stairs, an army sergeant sitting there. He glanced up and Martineau said, "My name is Vogel. I believe Colonel Heine is expecting me."

  The sergeant leaped to his feet and picked up the phone. "Standartenführer Vogel is here, Herr Major." He replaced the receiver. "Major Necker will be down directly, sir."

  "Thank you." Martineau walked away and looked out through the open door. Within moments there was the sound of boots on the stairs. He turned to find a young man hurrying down, an infantry major, no more than thirty from the look of him.

  He was all cordiality, but then he would be, pausing briefly to click his heels before putting out a hand. "Felix Necker, Standartenführer."

  He'd seen action, that was plain enough from the shrapnel scar running into the right eye. As well as the Iron Cross First Class he wore the Wounded Badge in silver, which meant he'd been a casualty at least three times, the Infantry Assault Badge and a Close Combat Clasp in gilt. It was recognition and familiarity with such items that kept Martineau alive. What they told him about people was important. What they said about this man was that he was a war hero.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Herr Major," he said. "You've been in Jersey long?"

  "Only a couple of months," Necker told him. "I'm not with the 319th Division normally. Only on loan."

  They went upstairs, he knocked and opened a door, stood to one side and Martineau went in first. It was a pleasant enough room, obviously originally the office of some official. The officer who stood up and came around the desk to meet him was a type he recognized instantly. A little stiff in manne
r, rather old-fashioned regular army and very definitely no Nazi. An officer and a gentleman.

  "Standartenführer. A pleasure to see you." The handshake was firm, friendly enough, but the eyes said something else. Only surface courtesy here.

  "Colonel Heine." Martineau opened his coat and produced his SD card.

  Heine examined it and handed it back. "Please sit down. In what way can we serve you? You've met Felix Necker, of course. He's only on loan from Paris. Temporarily my second in command. A holiday for him. Just out of hospital. He was on the Russian Front."

  "Indeed?" Martineau said. He took out the Himmler letter and passed it across.

  Heine read it slowly, his face grave, then passed it to Necker. "If I could know the purpose of your visit?"

  "Not at this stage." Martineau took the letter as Necker handed it back to him. "All I need is assurance of total cooperation as and when required."

  "That goes without saying," Heine hesitated. "As for billeting arrangements, I understand you are staying at de Ville Place

  ."

  "Yes, I spoke to Captain Muller of the GFP on the pier when we arrived. He was most cooperative. He has already supplied me with a suitable vehicle, so for the moment, there is really nothing else I require. It would be useful if you informed all unit commanders of my presence."

  "Of course. There is one thing," Heine added. "I have to go to Guernsey and so does the civil affairs commander. A weekend conference with General von Schmettow."

  Martineau turned to Necker. "Presumably you will be in command?"

  "That is correct."

  "Then I can see no problem." He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

  Heine said, "I'll see you when I get back then?"

  "Possibly." Martineau shook hands. "A pleasure, Herr Colonel. I'll let you get on with it now. Don't bother to see me out, Major."

  The door closed behind him. Heine's whole demeanor changed. "My flesh always crawls when these SS security people appear. What in the hell does he want, Felix?"

  "God alone knows, Herr Colonel, but his credentials…" Necker shrugged. "Not only signed by Himmler, but by the Führer himself."

  "I know." Heine put up a hand defensively. "Just watch him, that's all. I'll see what von Schmettow thinks when I get to Guernsey. But at all costs keep him sweet. Trouble with Himmler is the last thing we need."

  "Of course, Herr Colonel."

  "Good. Now show in these good citizens from the Food Control Committee and let's get on with it."

  Martineau had time in hand so he walked through the town. There were plenty of people about, more civilians than soldiers. Most people looked underweight, but that was to be expected, and clothes looked old and well-worn. There were few children about, they'd be at school. The ones he did see were in better shape than he had expected, but then, people always did put their children first.

  So, people managed. He knew, because Helen de Ville had told them, of the communal kitchens and bakeries to conserve fuel. It occurred to him that people in the town obviously had a more difficult time of it than those in the country. At that moment, as he moved into Queen Street

  , he saw a crowd overflowing the pavement ahead, all staring into a shop window.

  It contained an amazing display of food of every description. Canned goods, sacks of potatoes and flour, hams, bottles of red wine and champagne. People said nothing, just looked. A notice in the window said: Black market goods. The enemy may be your own neighbor. Help defeat him. It was signed by Muller. The pain in the faces of ordinary people deprived too long was unbearable. Martineau turned and went back to Charing Cross.

  When he went upstairs to the salon, Sarah was just adjusting her hat in the mirror. Her hair looked excellent. He helped her on with her coat. Emily Johnson said, "Satisfied?"

  "Very much so." He opened his wallet and took out a ten-mark note.

  "No!" Her anger overflowed. "I don't want your money."

  "You told me to do her hair and I've done it." There were tears of frustration in her eyes. "Just go."

  Martineau pushed Sarah out of the door. When he turned, his voice, to Emily Johnson's astonishment, was quite gentle. It was as if, for a moment, he had stepped out of the role of brutal SS officer that he had played so well. "I salute you, Mrs. Johnson. You are a brave woman."

  The door closed behind him. She sat down, head in hands, and started to cry.

  Martineau parked the Kubelwagen outside the Silvertide Hotel at Havre des Pas beside several other cars. "I shan't be long."

  She smiled. "Don't worry about me I'll just take a walk along the seawall. I used to come to swim in the pool here when I was a kid."

  "As you please. Just try not to talk to any strange men."

  Muller had seen him arrive from the window of his office. When Martineau went inside, a young military policeman in plain clothes was waiting to greet him. "Standartenführer Vogel? This way please."

  He ushered Martineau into Muller's office and closed the door. The captain stood up behind the desk. "A great pleasure."

  "I wish I could say the same," Martineau said. "You've spoken to Kleist and Greiser?"

  "About this misunderstanding at de Ville Place

  ? Yes, they did explain…"

  "Misunderstanding?" Martineau said coldly. "You will have them in here now, Herr Captain, if you please, and quickly. My time is limited."

  He turned away and stood at the window, hands behind his back, as Muller asked for Kleist and Greiser over the intercom. They came in only a few moments. Martineau didn't bother to turn around, but looked out across the road to the seawall where Sarah was standing.

  He said softly, "Inspector Kleist, I understand you have put this morning's events at de Ville Place

  down to a misunderstanding?"

  "Well, yes, Standartenführer."

  "Liar!" Martineau's voice was low and dangerous. "Both of you liars." He turned to face them. "As I walked through the wood with Mademoiselle Latour we heard a girl scream. A child, Captain, barely sixteen, being dragged toward a barn by this animal here while the other stood and laughed. I was about to interfere when General Gallagher came on the scene and gave a bully the thrashing he deserved."

  "I see," Muller said.

  "Just to make things worse, I was obliged to draw my own pistol and fire a warning shot to prevent this idiot shooting Gallagher in the back. God in heaven, what kind of an imbecile are you, Greiser?" He spoke slowly as if to a child. "The man is Irish, which means he is a neutral, and the Führer's declared policy is good relations with Ireland. On top of that he is a famous man back there in the old country. A hero of their revolution. A general. We don't shoot people like that in the back. Understand?"

  "Yes, Standartenführer."

  Now he turned his attention to Kleist. "And as the Führer's declared policy toward the inhabitants of Jersey has been one of reconciliation, we do not attempt to rape sixteen-year-old girls." He turned to Muller. "The actions of these men are an affront to every ideal the Reich holds dear and to German honor."

  He was thoroughly enjoying himself, especially when Heist's anger overflowed. "I'm not a child to be lectured like this."

  "Kleist!" Martineau said. "As a member of the Gestapo you took an oath to our Führer. A holy oath. As I recall it runs: I vow to you and the superiors you appoint, obedience unto death. Is it not so?"

  "Yes," Kleist answered.

  "Then remember from now on that you are here to obey orders. If I ask a question you answer, 'Jawohl, Standartenführer.' If I give you an order it's 'Zu befehl, Standartenführer.' Do you follow?"

  There was a pause before Kleist said in a low voice, "Ja-wohl, Standartenführer."

  Martineau turned on Muller. "And you wonder why Reichsführer Himmler thought it worthwhile sending me here?"

  He walked out without another word, went through the foyer and crossed the road to the Kubelwagen. Sarah was sitting on the bonnet. "How did it go?" she asked.

  "Oh, I think you c
ould say I put the fear of God in them all rather satisfactorily." He opened the door for her. "Now you can take me on a Cook's tour of this island of yours."

  Muller started to laugh. "I wish you could see yourself standing there in front of the desk, Willi. All you need is short pants."

  "I swear to God I'll…"

  "You'll do nothing, Willi, just like the rest of us. You'll just do as you're told." He went to a cupboard, opened it and found a glass and a bottle of cognac. "I must say he sounded just like the Reichsführer on a bad day. All that German purity nonsense. All those platitudes."

  "Do you still want me to speak to my brother, Herr Captain?" Greiser asked. "I've got a call booked through to Stuttgart for ten o'clock tonight."

  "Why not?" Muller poured some cognac into his glass and said impatiently, "For God's sake, go down to the hospital and get that nose seen to, Willi. Go on, get out of my sight, both of you."

  Rommel was staying at a villa near Bayeux, in a place deep in the countryside and quite remote. It had been used as a weekend retreat by the commanding general of the area who had been happy to offer it to the field marshal when he'd expressed a desire for a quiet weekend. The Bernards, who ran the house, were extremely discreet. The wife was an excellent cook, the husband acted as butler.

  Baum drove to the house ahead of the field marshal that afternoon in a Kubelwagen wearing his own Fallschirmjager uniform. He also affected a heavy black patch over the right eye on Rommel's insistence. To Baum, he did not resemble the field marshal until he put on the clothes, changed his appearance with a few artful touches of makeup, the rubber cheekpads that made the face squarer. But the real change was in himself—the change that started inside. He thought Rommel, so he became Rommel. That was his unique talent as a performer.

  Rommel and Hofer arrived later in the afternoon in the Mercedes driven by an engineer sergeant named Dreschler, an Afrika Korps veteran whom Hofer had specially selected. Madame Bernard provided the field marshal with a late luncheon in the drawing room. Afterward, Hofer brought Baum in to join them.