Eagle Has Flown, The Read online

  ‘He works for us, you see, also for money,’ Carter said. ‘And they have been in touch, indicated their interest in pulling you out and requesting more information as to your whereabouts.’

  ‘And we’ve told him what he needs to know,’ Munro put in. ‘Even your new home at the Priory.’

  ‘So, now I understand,’ Steiner said. ‘You allow the plan to proceed, Devlin comes to London. He will need help, of course, other agents or what have you and at the appropriate moment you arrest the lot.’

  ‘Yes, that is one way,’ Munro said. ‘There is another possibility, of course.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘That I simply allow it all to happen. You escape to Germany …’

  ‘Where I work for you?’ Steiner shook his head. ‘Sorry, Brigadier. Carter was right. I’m no Nazi, but I’m still a soldier – a German soldier. I’d find the word traitor difficult to handle.’

  ‘Would you say your father and others were traitors because they tried to remove the Führer?’ Munro asked.

  ‘In a sense that’s different. Germans trying to handle their own problem.’

  ‘A neat point.’ Munro turned and said, ‘Jack?’

  Carter went and knocked on the door. It opened and the MP appeared. Munro got up. ‘If you’d be kind enough to follow me, Colonel, there’s something I’d like you to see.’

  As far as Adolf Hitler was concerned there was to be no possibility of an honourable death for a traitor. No officer convicted of plotting against him met his end at the hands of the firing squad. The punishment was statutory, death by hanging, usually from a meat hook and often piano wire was employed. Victims frequently took a long time to die, often very unpleasantly. The Führer had ordered all such executions to be recorded on film. Many were so appalling that even Himmler had been known to walk out of the showings, sick to the stomach.

  The one which was being shown now in the large stockroom at the end of the corridor was flickering and rather grainy. The young Intelligence sergeant, anonymous in the darkness behind the film projector, was using the white painted wall as a screen. Steiner sat on a chair alone, Munro and Carter behind him.

  General Karl Steiner, carried in by two SS men, was already dead from a heart attack, the only good thing about the entire proceedings. They hung him to the hook anyway and moved away. For a little while the camera stayed on that pathetic figure, swaying slightly from side to side, then the screen went blank.

  The projectionist switched on the light. Kurt Steiner stood, turned and moved to the door without a word. He opened it, went past the MP and walked down the corridor to his room. Munro and Carter followed. When they went into the room, Steiner was standing at the window gripping the bar and looking out. He turned, his face very pale.

  ‘You know I really think it’s about time I took up smoking again, gentlemen.’

  Jack Carter fumbled a cigarette out of a packet of Players and gave him a light.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Munro said, ‘but it was important you knew that Himmler had broken his promise.’

  ‘Come off it, Brigadier,’ Steiner said. ‘You’re not sorry about anything. You wanted to make your point and you’ve made it. I never thought my father stood much of a chance of survival, whatever I did. As far as Himmler is concerned, keeping promises is a low priority.’

  ‘And what do you think now?’ Munro asked.

  ‘Ah, so we come to the purpose of the exercise? Will I now, in a white-hot rage, offer my services to the Allies? Allow myself to be spirited off to Germany where I assassinate Hitler at the first opportunity?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Brigadier. I’ll have some bad nights over this. I may even ask to see a priest, but the essential point remains the same. My father’s involvement in a plot on Hitler’s life was as a German. He wasn’t doing it to advance the Allied cause. He was doing it for Germany.’

  It was Carter who said, ‘Yes, one sees that.’

  Steiner turned to him. ‘Then you must also realize that for me to do what the Brigadier suggests would be a betrayal of everything my father stood for and gave his life for.’

  ‘All right.’ Munro stood up. ‘We’re wasting our time. You’ll be transferred to St Mary’s Priory in the New Year, Colonel. Your friend Devlin hasn’t a hope of getting you out, of course, but we’d love him to try.’ He turned to Carter. ‘Let’s get moving Jack.’

  Steiner said, ‘One thing, Brigadier, if I may?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My uniform. I would remind you that under the Geneva Convention I am entitled to wear it.’

  Munro glanced at Carter who said, ‘It has been repaired, Colonel, and cleaned. I’ll arrange for you to have it later today together with all your medals, naturally.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ Munro said and went out. Carter took out his packet of cigarettes and a box of matches and laid them on the locker. ‘You mentioned a priest. I’ll arrange for one if you like.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘And a supply of cigarettes?’

  ‘Better not. This one tasted terrible.’ Steiner managed a smile.

  Carter went to the door, hesitated and turned. ‘If it helps at all, Colonel, it was apparently a heart attack your father died of. I don’t know the circumstances …’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine them well enough, but my thanks anyway,’ Steiner answered.

  He stood there, hands thrust into the pockets of his robe, quite calm, and Carter, unable to think of anything else to say, stepped into the corridor and went after Munro.

  As they drove through the fog along Tower Hill, Munro said, ‘You don’t approve, do you, Jack?’

  ‘Not really, sir. An unnecessary cruelty in my opinion.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I told you before, it’s not a nice war. At least we know where we stand with friend Steiner now.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘As for Devlin – if he’s mad enough to try, let him come whenever he wants. With Vargas tipping us off on every move he makes we can’t go wrong.’

  He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes.

  It was actually New Year’s Day when Devlin finally arrived in Berlin. It had taken him two days to get a seat on the Paris Express from Madrid. In Paris itself, his priority, thanks to Schellenberg, had got him on the Berlin Express, but B17 bombers of the American 8th Air Force operating out of England had inflicted severe damage on the Frankfurt railway marshalling yards. This had necessitated a rerouting of most rail traffic from France or the Netherlands into Germany.

  The weather was bad in Berlin, the kind of winter that couldn’t make up its mind, a thin snow changing to sleet and driving rain. Devlin, still wearing a suit more apt for Portugal, had managed to procure a raincoat in Paris, but he was freezing and quite miserable as he trudged through the crowds in the railway station at Berlin.

  Ilse Huber recognized him at once from his file photo as she stood at the barrier beside the security police. She had already made arrangements with the sergeant in charge and when Devlin appeared, bag in hand, his papers ready, she intervened at once.

  ‘Herr Devlin? Over here please.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am Ilse Huber, General Schellenberg’s secretary. You look awful.’

  ‘I feel bloody awful.’

  ‘I have transport waiting,’ she said.

  The car was a Mercedes saloon with an SS pennant conspicuously on display. Devlin said, ‘I suppose that thing makes people get out of the way fast?’

  ‘It certainly helps,’ she said. ‘It occurred to General Schellenberg that you might be caught out by the weather.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘I’ve made arrangements to take you to a second-hand shop. We’ll get everything you need there. And you’ll need someplace to stay. I have an apartment not too far from headquarters. There are two bedrooms. If it suits, you can have one of them while you’re here.’

  ‘More to the point, does it suit you?’ he asked.

&nb
sp; She shrugged. ‘Mr Devlin, my husband was killed in the Winter War in Russia. I have no children. My mother and father died in an RAF raid on Hamburg. Life could be difficult except for one thing. Working for General Schellenberg usually takes at least sixteen hours out of my day, so I’m hardly ever home.’

  She smiled and Devlin warmed to her. ‘It’s a deal, then. Ilse, is it? Let’s get on with the clothes. I feel as if some of my more particular parts have frozen solid.’

  When they emerged forty minutes later from the second-hand shop she’d taken him to, he wore a tweed suit, laced boots, a heavy overcoat almost ankle-length, gloves and a trilby hat.

  ‘So, you are equipped to handle Berlin in January,’ she said.

  ‘Where to now? Your apartment?’

  ‘No, we can go there later. General Schellenberg wants to see you as soon as possible. He’s at Prinz Albrechtstrasse now.’

  Devlin could hear the sounds of shooting as they descended the steep stairway. ‘And what’s all this then?’

  Ilse said, ‘The basement firing range. The General likes to keep in practice.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  She looked almost shocked. ‘The best. I’ve never seen anyone shoot better.’

  ‘Really?’ Devlin was unconvinced.

  But he had cause to revise his opinion a moment later when they opened the door and went in. Schellenberg was firing at a series of cardboard Russian soldiers, watched by an SS sergeant-major who was obviously in charge. He worked his way across three targets, placing two rounds neatly in each heart. As he paused to reload, he noticed their presence.

  ‘Ah, Mr Devlin, so you finally got here?’

  ‘A hell of a journey, General.’

  ‘And Ilse’s taken care of your wardrobe, I see.’

  ‘And how did you guess?’ Devlin said. ‘It can only have been the smell of the mothballs.’

  Schellenberg laughed and reloaded his Mauser. ‘Schwarz,’ he said to the sergeant-major. ‘Something for Mr Devlin. I believe he’s quite a marksman.’

  Schwarz rammed a magazine into the butt of a Walther PPK and handed it to the Irishman.

  ‘All right?’ Schellenberg asked.

  ‘Your shout, General.’

  Fresh targets sprang up and Schellenberg fired six times very fast, again two holes in the heart area on three separate targets.

  ‘Now isn’t that something?’ Devlin’s hand swung up, he fired three rounds so close together that they might almost have been one. A hole appeared between the eyes of all three targets.

  He laid the Walther down and Ilse Huber said, ‘My God!’

  Schellenberg handed his pistol to Schwarz. ‘A remarkable talent, Mr Devlin.’

  ‘Remarkable curse more like. Now what happens, General?’

  ‘The Reichsführer has expressed a desire to see you.’

  Devlin groaned. ‘He didn’t like me the last time around. A glutton for punishment that man. All right, let’s get it over with.’

  The Mercedes turned out of Wilhelmplatz and into Vosstrasse and drove towards the Reich Chancellery.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Devlin demanded.

  ‘Times have changed since Goering said that if a single bomb fell on Berlin you could call him Meier.’

  ‘You mean he got it wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The Führer has had a bunker constructed below the Chancellery. Subterranean headquarters. Thirty metres of concrete, so the RAF can drop as many bombs as they like.’

  ‘Is this where he intends to make his last stand then?’ Devlin enquired. ‘Wagner playing over the loudspeakers?’

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t like to think about that,’ Schellenberg said. ‘The important people have secondary accommodation down there which obviously includes the Reichsführer.’

  ‘So what goes on now? Are they expecting the RAF to plaster the city tonight or what?’

  ‘Nothing so exciting. The Führer likes to have staff meetings now and then in the map room. He gives them dinner afterwards.’

  ‘Down there?’ Devlin shuddered. ‘I’d rather have a corned beef sandwich.’

  The Mercedes drew into the car ramp and an SS sentry approached. In spite of Schellenberg’s uniform the sentry checked their identities thoroughly before allowing them through. Devlin followed Schellenberg down a seemingly endless passage, concrete walls, dim lighting. There was a soft humming from electric fans in the ventilating system, the occasional blast of cold air. There were SS guards here and there, but no great evidence of people, and then a door opened, a young corporal emerged and behind him Devlin saw a room crammed with radio equipment and a number of operatives.

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking there’s no one here,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Rooms everywhere. A couple of hundred people tucked in all over the place like that radio room.’

  A door opened further along the passage and to Devlin’s astonishment, Hitler emerged followed by a broad, rather squat man in a nondescript uniform. As they approached, Schellenberg pulled Devlin to one side and stood at attention. The Führer was talking to the other man in a low voice and totally ignored them as he passed and descended the stairs at the other end of the passage.

  ‘The man with him was Bormann,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery. A very powerful man.’

  ‘So that was the Führer?’ Devlin said. ‘And me almost getting to touch the hem of his robe.’

  Schellenberg smiled. ‘Sometimes, my friend, I wonder how you’ve managed to last as long as you have.’

  ‘Ah, well, it must be my good looks, General.’

  Schellenberg tapped on a door, opened it and led the way in. A young woman, an SS auxiliary in uniform, sat at a typewriter in the corner. The rest of the room was mainly taken up by filing cabinets and the desk behind which Himmler sat, working through a file. He glanced up and removed his pince-nez.

  ‘So, General, he’s arrived.’

  ‘God bless all here,’ Devlin said cheerfully.

  Himmler winced and said to the girl, ‘Leave us. Come back in fifteen minutes.’ She went out and he carried on. ‘I expected you in Berlin sooner, Herr Devlin.’

  ‘Your railway system seemed to be having trouble with the RAF,’ Devlin told him and lit a cigarette, mainly because he knew Himmler detested the habit.

  Himmler was annoyed, but didn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he said to Schellenberg, ‘You seem to have wasted an inordinate amount of time so far, General. Why didn’t Herr Devlin return from Lisbon with you?’

  ‘Ah, the General did a fine job,’ said Devlin. ‘It was me had plans for Christmas you see. No, the General was very reasonable. More than I can say for the other fella, Berger. We didn’t get on at all.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Himmler said. ‘But that scarcely matters as Sturmbannführer Berger has other duties to take care of.’ He leaned back. ‘So, you think this thing can be done? You believe you could get Steiner out?’

  ‘Depends on the plan,’ Devlin said, ‘but anything’s possible.’

  Himmler nodded. ‘It would be a remarkable coup for all of us.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Devlin said. ‘It’s getting back in one piece that worries me. I only just made it last time.’

  ‘You were well paid then and I would remind you that you’re being well paid this time.’

  ‘And that’s a fact,’ Devlin said. ‘As my old mother used to say, money will be the death of me.’

  Himmler looked extremely annoyed. ‘Can’t you take anything seriously, you Irish?’

  ‘When I last had the pleasure of meeting your honour, I gave you the answer to that one. It’s the rain.’

  ‘Oh, get him out of here,’ Himmler said. ‘And get on with it, General. Needless to say, I expect a regular progress report.’

  ‘Reichsführer.’ Schellenberg ushered Devlin out.

  The Irishman was grinning hugely. ‘I enjoyed that.’ He dropped his cigarette on the floor and stamped on
it as Berger came round the corner, a rolled-up map under his arm.

  He was in uniform and wore the Iron Cross First and Second Classes. He stiffened when he saw them and Devlin said cheerfully, ‘Very pretty, son, but it looks to me as if someone’s been spoiling your good looks.’

  Berger’s face was very pale and although the swelling had subsided it was obvious his nose was broken. He ignored Devlin and nodded formally to Schellenberg. ‘General.’ He passed on and knocked at Himmler’s door.

  ‘He must be well in there,’ Devlin observed.

  ‘Yes,’ Schellenberg nodded. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Where to now? Your office?’

  ‘No, tomorrow will be soon enough. I’ll take you for a meal and drop you at Ilse’s place afterwards. You get a good night’s sleep and we’ll go over things in the morning.’

  As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, fresh air drifted in and Devlin took a deep breath. ‘Thank God for that,’ and then he started to laugh.

  ‘What is it?’ Schellenberg demanded.

  There was a poster on the wall that carried a picture of a rather idealized SS soldier and underneath it said, ‘At the end stands victory.’

  Devlin laughed again. ‘God save us, General, but some people will believe anything.’

  Berger clicked his heels in front of Himmler’s desk. ‘I have the plan of the Château de Belle Ile here, Reichsführer.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Himmler said. ‘Let me see.’

  Berger unrolled the plan and the Reichsführer examined it. ‘Good. Very good.’ He looked up. ‘You will be in sole charge, Berger. How many men would you suggest for the honour guard?’

  ‘Twenty-five. Thirty at the most, Reichsführer.’

  ‘Have you visited the place yet?’ Himmler asked.

  ‘I flew down to Cherbourg the day before yesterday and drove out to the Château. It’s quite splendid. The owners are French aristocrats who fled to England. There is at the moment only a caretaker and his wife. I’ve informed him that we’ll be taking the place over in the near future, but not why, naturally.’

  ‘Excellent. No need to go near the place again for another couple of weeks. In other words, wait as long as possible before you and your men take over. You know what this so-called French Resistance is like. Terrorists, all of them. They bomb – murder.’ He rolled the plan up and returned it to Berger. ‘After all, the Führer will be our direct responsibility at this conference, Major. A sacred responsibility.’