Eagle Has Flown, The

  The Eagle Has Flown

  For my mother

  Henrietta Higgins Bell

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Preface

  London Belfast 1975

  1

  Berlin Lisbon London 1943

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Belfast 1975

  16

  About the Author

  Also By Jack Higgins

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  For years fans of my work in thousands of letters begged me to write a sequel to The Eagle Has Landed because of the enduring popularity of that book and particularly because of the enormous affection they all seem to have for Liam Devlin, the rogue Irishman in the IRA who was involved in the Churchill plot. Of course the real problem was that Steiner, the gallant German paratroop Colonel, had been shot dead at the end of the original story. I was visiting the Tower of London by chance and was shown where Rudolf Hess had been held prisoner, and I was surprised to learn that other German prisoners had been held there. All I knew at that point was that I would like to write about a prisoner in the Tower, but who would he be? The answer was like a bolt from the blue. Steiner hadn’t died. He had survived surgery, was imprisoned in the Tower, and they wanted him back in Berlin. And who better to take on the job than Liam Devlin. The fact that this would be my fiftieth novel made it a special occasion, and so the Eagle flew again.

  Jack Higgins

  June 1996

  PREFACE

  At one o’clock in the morning of Saturday, November 6, 1943, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS and Chief of State Police received a simple message: The Eagle has Landed. It meant that a small force of German paratroopers under the command of Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner, aided by IRA gunman, Liam Devlin, were at that moment safely in England and poised to snatch the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, from the Norfolk country house where he was spending a quiet weekend near the sea. By the end of the day, thanks to a bloody confrontation in the village of Studley Constable between American Rangers and the Germans, the mission was a failure, Liam Devlin apparently the only survivor. As for Kurt Steiner …

  LONDON

  •

  BELFAST

  1975

  1

  There was an Angel of Death on top of an ornate mausoleum in one corner, arms extended. I remember that well because someone was practising the organ and light drifted across the churchyard in coloured bands through stained-glass windows. The church wasn’t particularly old, built on a high tide of Victorian prosperity like the tall houses surrounding it. St Martin’s Square. A good address once. Now, just a shabby backwater in Belsize Park, but a nice, quiet area where a woman alone might walk down to the corner shop at midnight in safety and people minded their own business.

  The flat at number thirteen was on the ground floor. My agent had borrowed it for me from a cousin who had gone to New York for six months. It was old-fashioned and comfortable and suited me fine. I was on the downhill slope of a new novel and needed to visit the Reading Room at the British Museum most days.

  But that November evening, the evening it all started, it was raining heavily and just after six I passed through the iron gates and followed the path through the forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. In spite of my umbrella the shoulders of my trenchcoat were soaked, not that it bothered me. I’ve always liked the rain, the city at night, wet streets stretching into winter darkness, a peculiar feeling of freedom that it contains. And things had gone well that day with the work, the end was very definitely in sight.

  The Angel of Death was closer now, shadowed in the half-light from the church, the two marble attendants on guard at the mausoleum’s bronze doors, everything as usual except that tonight, I could have sworn that there was a third figure and that it moved out of the darkness towards me.

  For a moment I knew genuine fear and then, as it came into the light, I saw a young woman, quite small and wearing a black beret and soaked raincoat. She had a briefcase in one hand. The face was pale, the eyes dark and somehow anxious.

  ‘Mr Higgins? You are Jack Higgins, aren’t you?’

  She was American, that much was obvious. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I must talk to you, Mr Higgins. Is there somewhere we could go?’

  I hesitated, reluctant for all sorts of obvious reasons to take this any further and yet there was something quite out of the ordinary about her. Something not to be resisted.

  I said, ‘My flat’s just over the square there.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. I still hesitated and she added, ‘You won’t regret it, believe me. I’ve information of vital importance to you.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘What really happened afterwards at Studley Constable. Oh, lots of things you don’t know.’

  Which was enough. I took her arm and said, ‘Right, let’s get in out of this damn rain before you catch your death and you can tell me what the hell this is all about.’

  The house interior had changed very little, certainly not in my flat where the tenant had stayed with a late Victorian decor, lots of mahogany furniture, red velvet curtains at the bow window and a sort of Chinese wallpaper in gold and green, heavily patterned with birds. Except for the central heating radiators, the only other concession to modern living was the kind of gas fire which made it seem as if logs burned brightly in a stainless steel basket.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said and turned to face me, even smaller than I had thought. She held out her right hand awkwardly, still clutching the briefcase in the other. ‘Cohen,’ she said. ‘Ruth Cohen.’

  I said, ‘Let’s have that coat. I’ll put it in front of one of the radiators.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She fumbled at her belt with one hand and I laughed and took the briefcase from her.

  ‘Here, let me.’ As I put it down on the table I saw that her initials were etched on the flap in black. The only difference was that it said Ph.D. at the end of it.

  ‘Ph.D.?’ I said.

  She smiled slightly as she struggled out of the coat. ‘Harvard, modern history.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’

  She smiled again. ‘Six months’ post doc at London University, Mr Higgins. I’d very definitely prefer your tea.’

  I went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle and made a tray ready. I lit a cigarette as I waited and turned to find her leaning on the doorway, arms folded.

  ‘Your thesis,’ I said. ‘For your doctorate. What was the subject?’

  ‘Certain aspects of the Third Reich in the Second World War.’

  ‘Interesting. Cohen – are you Jewish?’ I turned to make the tea.

  ‘My father was a German Jew. He survived Auschwitz and made it to the US, but died the year after I was born.’

  I could think of no more than the usual inadequate response. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She stared at me blankly for a moment, then turned and went back to the sitting room. I followed with the tray, placed it on a small coffee table by the fire and we sat opposite each other in wingback chairs.

  ‘Which explains your interest in the Third Reich,’ I said as I poured the tea.

  She frowned and took the cup of tea I handed her. ‘I’m just an historian. No axe to grind. My particular obsession
is with the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence. Why they were so good and why they were so bad at the same time.’

  ‘Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and his merry men?’ I shrugged. ‘I’d say his heart was never in it, but as the SS hanged him at Flossenburg concentration camp in April forty-five, we’ll never know.’

  ‘Which brings me to you,’ she said. ‘And your book The Eagle Has Landed.’

  ‘A novel, Dr Cohen,’ I said. ‘Pure speculation.’

  ‘At least fifty per cent of which is documented historical fact, you claim that yourself at the beginning of the book.’

  She leaned forward, hands clenched on her knees, a kind of fierceness there. I said softly, ‘All right, so what exactly are you getting at?’

  ‘Remember how you found out about the affair in the first place?’ she said. ‘The thing that started you off?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The monument to Steiner and his men the villagers of Studley Constable had hidden under the tombstone in the churchyard.’

  ‘Remember what it said?’

  ‘Hier ruhen Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner und 13 Deutsche Fallschirmjäger gefallen am 6 November 1943.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Here lies Lieutenant Colonel Kurt Steiner and thirteen German paratroopers killed in action on sixth November, nineteen forty-three.’

  ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘Thirteen plus one makes fourteen, only there aren’t fourteen bodies in that grave. There are only thirteen.’

  I stared at her incredulously. ‘How in the hell do you make that out?’

  ‘Because Kurt Steiner didn’t die that night on the terrace at Meltham House, Mr Higgins.’ She reached for the briefcase, had it open in a second and produced a brown manilla folder. ‘And I have the proof right here.’

  Which very definitely called for Bushmills whiskey. I poured one and said, ‘All right, do I get to see it?’

  ‘Of course, that’s why I’m here, but first let me explain. Any study of Abwehr intelligence affairs during the Second World War constantly refers to the work of SOE, the Special Operations Executive set up by British Intelligence in 1940 on Churchill’s instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.’

  ‘Set Europe ablaze, that’s what the old man ordered,’ I said.

  ‘I was fascinated to discover that a number of Americans worked for SOE before America came into the war. I thought there might be a book in it. I arranged to come over here to do the research and a name that came up again and again was Munro – Brigadier Dougal Munro. Before the war he was an archaeologist at Oxford. At SOE he was head of Section D. What was commonly known as the dirty tricks department.’

  ‘I had heard of him,’ I said.

  ‘I did most of my research at the Public Records Office. As you know, few files dealing with intelligence matters are immediately available. Some are on a twenty-five-year hold, some fifty …’

  ‘And exceptionally sensitive material, a hundred years,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what I have here.’ She held up the folder. ‘A hundred-year-hold file concerning Dougal Munro, Kurt Steiner, Liam Devlin and others. Quite a story, believe me.’

  She passed it across and I held it on my knees without opening it. ‘How on earth did you come by this?’

  ‘I checked out some files concerning Munro yesterday. There was a young clerk on duty on his own. Got careless, I guess. I found the file sandwiched in between two others, sealed, of course. You have to do your research on the premises at the Records Office, but since it wasn’t on the booking-out form, I slipped it into my briefcase.’

  ‘A criminal offence under the Defence of the Realm Act,’ I told her.

  ‘I know. I opened the seals as carefully as I could and read the file. It’s only a thirty-page résumé of certain events – certain astonishing events.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I photocopied it.’

  ‘The wonders of modern technology allow them to tell when that’s been done.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, I resealed the file and took it back this morning.’

  ‘And how did you manage to return it?’ I asked.

  ‘Checked out the same file yesterday. Took the Munro file back to the desk and told the duty clerk there’d been an error.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘I suppose so. I mean, why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘The same clerk?’

  ‘No – an older man.’

  I sat there thinking about it, feeling decidedly uneasy. Finally I said, ‘Why don’t you make us some fresh tea while I have a go at this?’

  ‘All right.’

  She took the tray and went out. I hesitated, then opened the file and started to read.

  I wasn’t even aware that she was there, so gripped was I by the events recorded in that file. When I was finished, I closed it and looked up. She was back in the other chair watching me, a curiously intent look on her face.

  I said, ‘I can understand the hundred-year hold. The powers that be wouldn’t want this to come out, not even now.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Can I hang on to it for a while?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Till tomorrow if you like. I’m going back to the States on the evening flight. Pan Am.’

  ‘A sudden decision?’

  She went and got her raincoat. ‘That’s right. I’ve decided I’d rather be back in my own country.’

  ‘Worried?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m probably being hypersensitive, but sure. I’ll pick the file up tomorrow afternoon. Say three o’clock on my way to Heathrow?’

  ‘Fine.’ I put the file down on top of my coffee table.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, seven thirty, as I walked her to the door. I opened it and we stood for a moment, rain driving down hard.

  ‘Of course there is someone who could confirm the truth of that file,’ she said. ‘Liam Devlin. You said in your book he was still around, operating with the Provisional IRA in Ireland.’

  ‘Last I heard,’ I said. ‘Sixty-seven he’ll be now, but lively with it.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’

  She went down the steps and walked away through the rain, vanishing in the early evening mist at the end of the street.

  I sat by the fire and read the file twice, then I went back into the kitchen, made myself some more tea and a chicken sandwich and sat at the table, eating the sandwich and thinking about things.

  Extraordinary how events coming right out of the blue can change things. It had happened to me once before, the discovery of that hidden memorial to Steiner and his men in the churchyard at Studley Constable. I’d been researching an article for an historical magazine. Instead, I’d found something unlooked for that had changed the course of my entire life. Produced a book which had gone round the world from New York to Moscow, made me rich. Now this – Ruth Cohen and her stolen file, and I was filled with the same strange, tingling excitement.

  I needed to come down. Get things in perspective. So, I went to have a shower, took my time over it, shaved and dressed again. It was only eight-thirty and it didn’t seem likely that I’d go to bed early, if I went at all.

  I didn’t have any more whiskey as I needed to think, so I made even more tea and settled on the chair again by the fire, lit a cigarette and started to work my way through the file again.

  The doorbell rang, shaking me from my reverie. I glanced at the clock. It was just before nine. The bell rang again insistently and I replaced the file in the folder, put it on the coffee table and went out into the hall. It occurred to me that it might be Ruth Cohen again, but I couldn’t have been more wrong, for when I opened the door I found a young police constable standing there, his navy-blue mac wet with rain.

  ‘Mr Higgins?’ He looked at a piece of paper in his left hand. ‘Mr Jack Higgins?’

  Strange the certainty of bad news so tha
t we don’t even need to be told. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He stepped into the hall. ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m making an enquiry relevant to a Miss Ruth Cohen. Would you be a friend of hers, sir?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’m afraid the young lady’s dead, sir. Hit-and-run accident at the back of the British Museum an hour ago.’

  ‘My God!’ I whispered.

  ‘The thing is sir, we found your name and address on a card in her handbag.’

  It was so difficult to take in. She’d stood there at the door where he was such a short time before. He was no more than twenty-one or -two. Still young enough to feel concern and he put a hand on my arm.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  I said, ‘Rather shocked, that’s all.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What is it you want of me?’

  ‘It seems the young lady was at London University. We’ve checked the student accommodation she was using. No one there with it being the weekend. It’s a question of official identification. For the Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘And you’d like me to do it?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. It’s not far. She’s at Kensington Mortuary.’

  I took another deep breath to steady myself. ‘All right. Just let me get my raincoat.’

  The mortuary was a depressing-looking building in a side street, more like a warehouse than anything else. When we went into the foyer, there was a uniformed porter on duty at the desk and a small dark man in his early fifties standing at the window looking out at the rain, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore a trilby hat and trenchcoat.

  He turned to meet me, hands in pockets. ‘Mr Higgins, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets and coughed, ash falling from the tip of his cigarette on to his coat. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Fox. An unfortunate business, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘This young lady, Ruth Cohen, was she a friend of yours?’