Eagle Has Flown, The Page 20

  ‘Marvellous.’ Carver put the poker down on the hearth. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ He turned to Eric. ‘Fancy a little drive down to the country?’

  ‘I don’t mind, Jack.’ Eric kissed her on the neck again. ‘As long as I can have ten minutes upstairs with this little madam before we go.’

  She cried out in terror and revulsion, reached back and clawed his face. Eric released her with a howl of pain, then, as he turned, slapped her. She backed away as he advanced on her slowly, reached behind her and managed to get the kitchen door open. He grabbed at her, she kicked out at him then staggered back across the terrace against the wall. There was an ugly snapping sound as it gave way and she disappeared into darkness.

  Ryan gave a cry and started forward and Carver had him by the collar, the barrel of the Browning at his ear. ‘Go and check on her,’ he called to Eric.

  Ryan stopped struggling and waited in silence. After a while, Eric appeared, his face pale. ‘She’s croaked, Jack, fell on a jetty down there. Must have broken her neck or something.’

  Ryan kicked back against Carver’s shin, shoving him away. He picked up the poker from the hearth, turned with it raised above his head and Carver shot him in the heart.

  There was a silence. Eric wiped blood from his face. ‘What now, Jack?’

  ‘We get out of here, that’s what.’

  He led the way and Eric followed, closing the kitchen door. They turned along the wharf and got in the Humber. Carver lit a cigarette. ‘Where’s that RAC map book?’ Eric found it in the glove compartment and Carver flipped through it. ‘Here we are, Romney Marsh and there’s Charbury. Don’t you remember? Before the war I used to take you and Mum down there to Rye for a day out by the sea.’

  Eric nodded. ‘Mum liked Rye.’

  ‘Let’s get going then.’

  ‘To Charbury?’ Eric said.

  ‘Why not? We don’t have anything better to do and there’s one aspect to all this that doesn’t seem to have occurred to you, my old son. We catch up with Devlin and this German and take care of them, we’ll be bleeding heroes.’ He tossed his cigarette out and replaced it with a cigar. ‘Move it, Eric, move it,’ he said and leaned back in his seat.

  At Chernay, visibility was no more than a hundred yards. Schellenberg and Asa stood in the radio room and waited while Leber checked the weather. The American wore a leather helmet, fur-lined flying jacket and boots. He smoked a cigarette nervously.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘They’ve listened to RAF weather reports for the south of England. It’s one of those situations, Captain; thick fog, but every so often the wind blows a hole in it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Asa said. ‘Let’s stop monkeying around.’

  He went out, Schellenberg following, and walked to the plane. Schellenberg said, ‘Asa, what can I say?’

  Asa laughed and pulled on his gloves. ‘General, I’ve been on borrowed time ever since I crash-landed in that blizzard in Finland. Take care of yourself.’

  He clambered into the cockpit and pulled down the cupola. Schellenberg stepped back out of the way. The Lysander started to move. It turned at the end of the field and came back into the wind. Asa boosted power and gave it everything, rushing headlong into that wall of fog, darkness and rain. He pulled back the column and started to climb, turning out to sea.

  Schellenberg watched him go in awe. ‘Dear God,’ he murmured. ‘Where do we find such men?’

  He turned and walked back to the radio room.

  In the study at Shaw Place, Lavinia turned from the radio and removed her headphones. She hurried out and found Shaw in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs.

  ‘Felt a big peckish, old girl.’ There was the usual tumbler of whisky close to hand and for once she felt impatient.

  ‘Good God, Max, the plane’s on its way and all you can think of is your wretched stomach. I’m going down to South Meadow.’

  She got her shooting jacket, one of her brother’s old tweed hats, found the bag of cycle lamps and set off, Nell following her. There was electricity in the barn so she switched on the lights when she got there. It was obvious that, considering the weather, breaking the blackout regulations wouldn’t matter and there wasn’t another house for two miles. She put the cycle lamps by the door and stood outside, checking the wind direction. The fog was as thick as ever, showed no sign of lifting at all. Suddenly it was like a curtain parting and she could see a chink of light from the house three hundred yards away.

  ‘How marvellous, Nell.’ She leaned down to fondle the dog’s ears and the fog dropped back into place as the wind died.

  Getting out of London itself was the worst part, as Devlin discovered, crawling along in a line of traffic at fifteen to twenty miles an hour.

  ‘A sod this,’ he said to Steiner.

  ‘It will make us late for the rendezvous, I presume?’ Steiner said.

  ‘A midnight departure was the aim. We’re not done yet.’

  Munro said from the back, ‘Put a bit of a spoke in your wheel, this lot, Mr Devlin.’

  Devlin ignored him and kept on going. Once they were through Greenwich, there was much less traffic and he was able to make better time. He lit a cigarette with one hand. ‘We’re on our way now.’

  Munro said, ‘I wouldn’t count your chickens.’

  Devlin said, ‘You’re a great man for the sayings, Brigadier. What about one from the Bible? The laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns under a pot?’ and he increased speed.

  The Carver brothers in the Humber had exactly the same problem getting out of London and Eric managed to take the wrong turning in Greenwich town centre, going three miles in the other direction. It was Jack who sorted him, getting out the RAC handbook and checking their route.

  ‘It’s bleeding simple. Greenwich to Maidstone, Maidstone to Ashford. From there you take the road to Rye and we turn off halfway for Charbury.’

  ‘But there’s hardly any road signs these days, you know that, Jack,’ Eric said.

  ‘Yes, well, there’s a war on, isn’t there, so just get on with it.’

  Jack Carver leaned back, closed his eyes and had a nap.

  There was a school of thought in both the Luftwaffe and RAF that recommended approaching an enemy coastline below the radar screen all the way on important missions. Asa remembered trying that with his old squadron during the Russo-Finnish war, coming in low off the sea to catch the Reds by surprise, all nice copy-book stuff, only nobody had counted on the presence of the Russian Navy. Five planes, that one had cost.

  So, he charted a course for Dungeness that took him along the Channel in a dead straight line. There were strong crosswinds and that slowed him down, but it was good monotonous flying and all he had to do was check for drift every so often. He stayed at eight thousand for most of the way, well above the fog, keeping a weather eye cocked for other planes.

  When it came, it took even an old hand like him by surprise, the Spitfire that lifted out of the fog, banked and took up station to starboard. Up there, visibility was good with a half-moon and Asa could see the pilot of the Spitfire clearly in the cockpit in helmet and goggles. The American raised a hand and waved.

  A cheerful voice crackled over his radio. ‘Hello, Lysander, what are you up to?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Asa replied. ‘Special Duties Squadron, operating out of Tempsford.’

  ‘A Yank, are you?’

  ‘In the RAF,’ Asa told him.

  ‘Saw the movie, old man. Terrible. Take care.’ The Spitfire banked away to the east very fast and disappeared into the distance.

  Asa said softly, ‘That’s what comes of living right, old buddy.’

  He went down into the fog until his altimeter showed a thousand feet, then turned in towards Dungeness and Romney Marsh.

  Shaw had his meal and a considerable amount of whisky after it. He was slumped in his chair beside the sitting room fire, his shotgun on the floor, when Lavinia went in.

  ‘Oh, Max,’ she said. ‘W
hat am I going to do with you?’

  He stirred when she put a hand on his shoulder and looked up. ‘Hello, old girl. Everything all right?’

  She went to the French windows and opened the curtains. The fog was as thick as ever. She closed the curtains and went back to him. ‘I’m going to go down to the barn, Max. It must be close now, the plane, I mean.’

  ‘All right, old girl.’

  He folded his arms and turned his head, closing his eyes again and she gave up. She went into the study and hurriedly took down the radio’s aerial and then she packed everything into the carrying case. When she opened the front door Nell slipped out beside her and they went down to the South Meadow together.

  She stood outside the barn listening. There was no sound, the fog embracing everything. She went in and switched on the light. There was a workbench by the door. She set the radio up there, running the aerial wires along the wall, looping them over rusting old nails. She put on the headphones and switched to the voice frequency as Devlin had shown her and heard Asa Vaughan’s voice instantly.

  ‘Falcon, are you receiving me? I say again, are you receiving me?’

  It was eleven forty-five and the Lysander was only five miles away. Lavinia stood in the entrance to the barn looking up, holding the headphones in one hand against her left ear. Of the plane, there was no sound.

  ‘Am receiving you, Lysander. Am receiving you.’

  ‘What are conditions in your nest?’ Asa’s voice crackled.

  ‘Thick fog. Visibility down to fifty yards. Wind gusting occasionally. I estimate strength four to five. It only clears things intermittently.’

  ‘Have you placed your markers?’ he asked.

  She’d totally forgotten. ‘Oh, God, no, give me a few minutes.’

  She put down the headphones, got the bag of cycle lamps and ran out into the meadow. She arranged three of them in an inverted L shape, the crossbar at the upwind end, and switched them on so that their beams shone straight up into the sky. Then she ran to a point two hundred yards along the meadow, Nell chasing after her, and spaced out a further three lamps.

  She was panting for breath when she returned to the barn and reached for the headphones and mike. ‘Falcon here. Markers in place.’

  She stood in the doorway of the barn looking up. She could hear the Lysander clearly. It seemed to pass at a few hundred feet and move away.

  ‘Falcon here,’ she called. ‘I heard you. You were directly overhead.’

  ‘Can’t see a thing,’ Asa replied. ‘It’s bad.’

  At that moment Sir Maxwell Shaw appeared from the darkness. He was not wearing a raincoat or hat and was very drunk, his speech slurred and halting. ‘Ah, there you are, old girl, everything all right?’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ she told him.

  Asa said, ‘I’ll keep circling, just in case things change.’

  ‘Right, I’ll stand by.’

  There was a crash of some sort just outside Ashford, a large produce truck and a private car, potatoes all over the road. Devlin, gripping the wheel impatiently, sat there in a queue of traffic for fifteen minutes before pulling out and turning the van.

  ‘Already midnight,’ he said to Steiner. ‘We can’t afford to hang about here. We’ll find another way.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Munro said. ‘Having trouble, are we, Mr Devlin?’

  ‘No, you old sod, but you will be if you don’t shut up,’ Devlin told him and took the next road on the left.

  It was at about the same time that Asa Vaughan took the Lysander down for the fourth attempt. The undercarriage was of the non-retractable type and there were landing spotlights fitted in the wheel spats. He had them on, but all they showed him was the fog.

  ‘Falcon, it’s impossible. I’m not getting anywhere.’

  Strangely enough it was Maxwell Shaw who came up with the solution. ‘Needs more light,’ he said. ‘Lot’s more light. I mean, he’d see the bloody house if it was on fire, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘My God!’ Lavinia said and reached for the mike. ‘Falcon here. Now listen carefully. I’m a pilot so I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Asa said.

  ‘My house is three hundred yards south of the meadow and downwind. I’m going to go up there now and put on every light in the place.’

  ‘Isn’t that what they call advertising?’ Asa said.

  ‘Not in this fog and there isn’t another house for two miles. I’m going now. Good luck.’ She put down her headphones and mike. ‘You stay here, Max, I shan’t be long.’

  ‘All right, old girl.’

  She ran all the way to the house, got the front door open, gasping for breath and started. She climbed the stairs first, going into every room, even the bath-rooms, switched on the lights and yanked back the blackout curtains. Then she went down to the ground floor and did the same thing. She left quickly and when she stopped after some fifty yards to look back, the house was ablaze with lights.

  Maxwell Shaw was drinking from a hip flask when she returned. ‘Bloody place looks like a Christmas tree,’ he told her.

  She ignored him and reached for the mike. ‘Right, I’ve done it. Is that any better?’

  ‘We’ll take a look,’ Asa said.

  He took the Lysander down to five hundred feet, suddenly filled with a strange fatalism. ‘What the hell, Asa,’ he said softly. ‘If you survive this damn war they’ll only give you fifty years in Leavenworth so what have you got to lose?’

  He went in hard and now the fog was suffused with a kind of glow and a second later, Shaw Place, every window alight, came into view. He had always been a fine pilot, but for a moment, greatness took over as he pulled back the column and lifted over the house with feet to spare. And there on the other side were the lights of the meadow, the open barn door.

  The Lysander landed perfectly, turned and taxied towards the barn. Lavinia got the doors fully open, her brother watching, and gestured Asa inside. He switched off the engine, took off his flying helmet and got out.

  ‘I say, that was a bit hairy,’ she said and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Lavinia Shaw and this is my brother Maxwell.’

  ‘Asa Vaughan. I really owe you one.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m a pilot myself. Used to fly a Tiger Moth from here.’

  ‘Good heavens, the fellow sounds like a damn Yank,’ Maxwell Shaw said.

  ‘Well, you could say I grew up there.’ Asa turned to Lavinia. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘No sign of Major Conlon, I’m afraid. Fog all the way from London to the coast. I expect they’ve got held up.’

  Asa nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get a message out to Chernay right now telling them I’m down in one piece.’

  At Chernay in the radio room Schellenberg was in despair for the RAF weather reports Cherbourg had been monitoring indicated just how impossible the situation was. And then Leber, sitting by the radio in headphones, was convulsed into action.

  ‘It’s Falcon, General.’ He listened, writing furiously on his pad at the same time, tore off the sheet and passed it to Schellenberg. ‘He’s made it, General, he managed to set that lovely bitch down.’

  ‘Yes,’ Schellenberg said. ‘He certainly did, but his passengers weren’t waiting for him.’

  ‘He said delayed by the fog, General.’

  ‘Yes, well, let’s hope so. Tell him we’ll be standing by.’

  Leber tapped out the message quickly and pulled the headphones down to his neck. ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up for an hour, General? I’m all right here.’

  ‘What I will do is go and have a shower and freshen myself up,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Then we’ll have some coffee together, Flight Sergeant.’

  He walked to the door and Leber said, ‘After all, there’s no rush. He’d never be able to get the Lysander in here until this weather improves.’

  ‘Yes, well, let’s not think about that for now,’ Schellenberg said and went out.

  At Shaw Place Asa helped Lavinia pu
t out all the lights, going from room to room. Shaw was slumped in his chair by the fire, eyes glazed, very far gone indeed.

  ‘Is he often like that?’ Asa asked.

  She left the French windows open, but drew the curtains. ‘My brother isn’t a happy man. Sorry, I didn’t ask you your rank.’

  ‘Captain,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Captain, let’s say the drink helps. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make some tea or coffee if you’d like it.’

  ‘Coffee for preference.’

  He sat on the edge of the table smoking a cigarette while she made the coffee, very handsome in the SS uniform and she was acutely aware of him. He took off his flying jacket and she saw the cuff-title on his sleeve.

  ‘Good heavens, the George Washington Legion? I didn’t know there was such a thing. My brother was right. You are an American.’

  ‘I hope you won’t hold it against me,’ he said.

  ‘We won’t, you beautiful Yankee bastard.’ As Asa turned, Liam Devlin came through the door and threw his arms about him. ‘How in the hell did you manage to land in that stuff, son? It took us all our time to make it from London by road.’

  ‘Genius, I suppose,’ Asa said modestly.

  Munro appeared behind Devlin, still with his wrists bound and the scarf around his eyes. Steiner was at his shoulder. ‘Colonel Kurt Steiner, the object of the exercise, plus a little excess baggage we acquired along the way,’ Devlin said.

  ‘Colonel, a pleasure.’ Asa shook Steiner’s hand.

  Lavinia said, ‘Why don’t we all go into the living room and have a cup of coffee? It’s just made.’

  ‘What a charming idea,’ Munro said.

  ‘What you like and what you get are two different things, Brigadier,’ Devlin told him. ‘Still, if it’s made, there’s no harm. Five minutes and we’re away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that. I’ll have to check the situation at Chernay,’ Asa said to him as they moved through. ‘The weather was just as bad there when I left.’

  Devlin said, ‘That’s all we need.’ In the living room he pushed Munro down into the other chair by the fire and looked at Maxwell Shaw in disgust. ‘Christ, if you struck a match he’d catch fire.’