Cold Harbour (15 page)

“Now then,” he said. “Let’s teach you your manners.”

Martin Hare had run the last hundred yards, something he had been advised very earnestly not to do by his doctors. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath as he ran in through the entrance. He had just enough energy to grab Edge by the hair and pull him off.

Edge, on his feet, turned with a cry of rage and punched him high on the right cheek. Hare tried to raise his arms, but suddenly found it almost impossible to breathe. He keeled over and Edge raised a knee in his face. Genevieve grabbed him by the jacket from the rear and Edge cursed and struck out at her as Hare fell to his knees.

Edge turned and had Genevieve by the throat as Craig Osbourne arrived on the run. Craig delivered a thoroughly dirty blow to Edge’s kidneys, knuckles extended. Edge screamed and Craig punched him again in exactly the same way, grabbed him by the neck and ran him out through the doorway.

As he turned, Genevieve was helping Hare to his feet. The Commander smiled ruefully. “A fat lot of use I turned out to be.”

“You’ll always be a hero to me,” Genevieve told him.

“See,” Craig said. “It’s the thought that counts. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. And you,” he turned to Edge, “try
anything like that again and I’ll personally see you court-martialled.”

They went out, totally leaving Edge on his hands and knees, gasping for breath, and walked back towards Cold Harbour.

IT WAS NOT
possible to dress as Anne-Marie just yet. Her suitcases were with the Rolls-Royce hidden by René at St. Maurice. However, Julie found her a blue silk dress of pre-war vintage and when Genevieve went downstairs and paused at the foot of the stairs, her reflection in the great cheval-mirror was disturbingly satisfactory.

Julie had laid the table in the library and had decked it with the best the Abbey could provide. Silverware, tablecloths of finest linen, exquisite plates of bone china. It was a wonderful atmosphere, the only illumination coming from the flickering candelabra and the log fire.

Julie, very attractive in the typically French little black dress, her hair tied back with a velvet bow, wore a white apron and insisted on handling everything in the kitchen herself, helped only by René who acted as a waiter.

“This is a French evening,” she said. “No one else must do a thing. And the cooking,
mes amis,
will very definitely be French now that the Brigadier, God bless him, is no longer with us.”

It was exquisite. A liver pâté with toast, the leg of lamb with herbs, some Cornish early new potatoes, a green salad, and afterwards a concoction of fruit and whipped cream that melted in the mouth.

“I thought there was supposed to be a war on,” Craig observed as he went round the table refilling the glasses, handsome in uniform.

Martin Hare sat opposite Genevieve, still playing the officer of the Kriegsmarine, wearing a collar and tie in deference to the occasion, a medal at his throat.

Genevieve reached across to touch it. “What is that decoration?” she asked.

“The Knight’s Cross.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s similar to our Congressional Medal of Honor or your Victoria Cross. It usually means the wearer should really be dead.”

Genevieve turned to Craig. “Didn’t you say Max Priem has one of those?”

“With Oak Leaves and Swords,” Craig said. “That means three awards. He really is on borrowed time, that boy.”

“A brave man, though,” she said.

“I’ll grant you that.” Craig raised his glass. “Let’s drink to brave men everywhere with this excellent champagne.”

Julie bustled in with coffee on a tray. “Wait for me,” she called, put the tray on the table and picked up her glass.

The fire flared up as in a sudden draught, Genevieve shivered, the champagne ice-cold as she swallowed and her skin crawled as if touched by a cool breeze. She could see the french window reflected in the great mirror above the fire, curtains drawn, and then they billowed outwards, came apart, and three men stepped through and stood there, just inside the room.

They were straight out of the book of German uniforms Craig had shown her, paratroops in the rimless steel helmets and the peculiarly long camouflage jackets. Two of them held machine pistols at the ready, hard, dangerous looking men. The one in the middle had a similar weapon suspended from his neck across his chest and held a
Walther in his right hand with a silencer on the end similar to the one Craig had shown her.

“Finish your drinks, ladies and gentlemen, by all means.” He crossed to the table, took the champagne bottle from the bucket and examined the label. “Nineteen thirty-one. Not bad.” He poured himself a glass. “Your health. My name is Sturm, Hauptman, Special Duty Squadron, 9th Parachute Regiment.” His English was quite reasonable.

“And what can we do for you?” Craig Osbourne asked.

“Why, exactly as you are told, Major. The special duty tonight is to convey you, the young lady here and the Fregattenkapitän to territory occupied by the forces of the Reich as fast as possible.”

“Really? I don’t think you’ll find that so easy.”

“I don’t see why not.” Sturm savoured the champagne. “The parachute drop was the difficult part, hitting the beach with the tide just right. Much simpler to slip out to sea in the E-boat so thoughtfully provided by your Kriegsmarine friend here.”

Genevieve saw it all then and barely stopped herself from laughing out loud. But she forced herself to react as Anne-Marie would and turned towards Osbourne, a cynical smile on her face.

Only Craig wasn’t smiling and René, his face contorted with rage, thrust a hand inside his coat and pulled out a pistol.
“Sale Boche!”
he cried.

Sturm’s hand swung up, the Walther coughed once, René fell back into his chair, dropping the pistol, a hand to his chest. He looked at the blood on it in a kind of wonder, turned to Genevieve in mute appeal then slid to the floor.

Julie cried out in fear, her hands to her face, turned and started to run along the length of the library towards the door at the far end. Sturm’s arm swung up.

“No!” Genevieve called.

His Walther coughed again, Julie seemed to trip, lurched to one side and fell on her face. Genevieve started towards her, but Sturm caught her arm.

“You will stay where you are, Fräulein.”

His two men covered them with the machine pistols and Sturm walked the length of the room and dropped to one knee beside Julie. He stood up and came back.

“Dead, I’m afraid. A pity.”

“You butcher!” Genevieve said.

“I suppose that depends on whose side you are on.” Sturm turned to Hare. “Is your crew on board the E-boat at the present time?” Hare made no reply and Sturm said, “Come now, Commander. We’ll find out soon enough when we get down there. You might as well tell me.”

“All right,” Hare said. “I believe the engineer is doing some work below and Obersteuermann Langsdorff is keeping watch.”

“And the rest will be at this inn they use as a mess? They can stay there. I’m sure that you can put to sea with no difficulty, aided by this engineer and the Obersteuermann.” He turned to Craig. “I understand you have a reputation for action, Major Osbourne. I would most earnestly advise against it on this occasion.” He took Genevieve by the arm and touched the silencer to her cheek. “The consequences for Fräulein Trevaunce, caught in the crossfire, could be severe. Do I make myself plain?”

“Perfectly,” Craig told him.

“Good. Then we go now, I think. We’ll leave your jeep in the courtyard, gentlemen, and proceed on foot by way of the garden. No need to advertise our presence.”

He took Genevieve by the hand like a lover and led the way out through the french windows, holding the Walther
against his thigh in the other hand. Craig and Hare followed, menaced by the machine pistols of the other two paratroopers.

It was cold and Genevieve shivered as they passed through the garden into the wood and reached the first cottages at the edge of the village.

“Are you all right, Fräulein?” Sturm enquired. “You’re trembling.”

“So would you be if you were only wearing a silk frock. It’s bloody cold.”

“Never mind. You’ll be on board soon.”

And then what?
she thought. What waited on the other side? And what could have gone so disastrously wrong? They were passing The Hanged Man now, curtains drawn at the windows, only a chink of light showing. There was laughter and singing, all curiously remote.

There was only a dim light up in the wheelhouse and the deck of the
Lili Marlene
was shrouded in darkness. They went down the gangplank, one by one.

Sturm said, “Now Commander, we have words with the Obersteuermann while one of my men goes below to reason with your engineer.”

The door to the companionway was flung open, light flooded out and Schmidt appeared. He was laughing as if he’d just been talking to someone, but now, the laugh faded.

“Here, what the bleeding hell is going on?” he demanded in English.

Again Sturm’s Walther swung up and the German shot him at close quarters, sending Schmidt back down the companion-way.

Sturm gestured to one of his men. “Get below and watch the engineer. The rest of you—on the bridge.”

He went up the ladder first followed by Genevieve then Hare and Craig, covered from behind by the other paratrooper. Langsdorff was seated at the chart table and he looked up, then stood in amazement.

“Get this thing moving,” Sturm said.

Langsdorff glanced at Hare who nodded. “Do as he tells you.”

There was a slight pause. Langsdorff called down to the engine room. A moment later and the engines rumbled into life.

“We need to cast off,” Hare said.

Sturm turned to Craig. “Get on with it and come back.”

Craig did as he was told. The lines splashed softly into the water. A minute later and the
Lili Marlene
moved away from the quay and drifted out into the harbour.

“See how simple life can be?” Sturm said. “Only one thing and it’s been annoying me. Brave men have died for that medal, Commander. I object to your use of it. It’s not for play actors.”

He tore the Knight’s Cross from Hare’s neck and Hare, in the same moment, grabbed his wrist, forcing the Walther to one side. There was a dull thud as it discharged. Genevieve ran her nails down the side of Sturm’s face and kicked him on the shins.

“Get her out of it, Craig! Now!” Hare cried as he and Sturm swayed together.

Craig wrenched open the door, reaching for Genevieve’s hand, pulling her after him. She lost a shoe, stumbled, and below on the afterdeck the other paratrooper fired his machine pistol from the shelter of the two rubber dinghies stored there. Craig pushed her to the rail to one side of the ladder.

“Jump, for God’s sake! Now!”

She got one foot on the second rail, he lifted her up, a hand to her back and then she was falling, hit the water and went under and Craig vaulted over to land beside her as she surfaced. The E-boat was already slipping away into the darkness. There were sudden stabbing fingers of flame as the machine pistol fired again ineffectually and then silence. They floated there alone.

“You all right?” he asked her, coughing.

“Yes, I think so. But Martin, Craig?”

“Never mind that now. This way. Follow me.”

They started to swim through the darkness. It was bitterly cold and then she heard the dull rumble of the E-boat’s engines again.

“It’s coming back,” she said in a panic.

“Never mind. Keep swimming.”

The engines were quite close now. She thrashed forward and then suddenly a searchlight picked them out of the water and then another light was turned up on the quay. There was a ragged cheer. She floated, looking up. The crew of the
Lili Marlene
were up there and Dougal Munro in a heavy overcoat, hands in pockets.

“Well done, Genevieve,” he called.

The
Lili Marlene
coasted in beyond them. Lines were thrown to the quay. In the light, she could see Martin Hare standing beside Sturm and Schmidt at the rail.

She turned to Craig, laughing, in spite of herself. “Oh, you bastard.”

Willing hands reached down to help them up the ladder to the top of the quay. Someone gave her a blanket and Munro came forward, Sturm and Hare behind him.

“Excellent, Genevieve. Good as a film. Allow me to introduce Captain Robert Shane, Special Air Service.”

Shane grinned and said, “Pleasure to do business with
you.” He put a hand to his scratched face. “Some of the time.”

Julie came through the crowd, René behind her. “I thought we were all pretty damn good. Now let’s get inside before you catch pneumonia. Scotch all round, I think.”

They turned and walked towards The Hanged Man. Craig put an arm around her shoulders. “Just a taster,” he told her, “of how rough things might get. You did well.”

“Don’t tell me you’re proud of me,” she said, teeth chattering.

“Something like that,” and he opened the door of the pub and ushered her inside.

It was just after seven on the following morning when Heinrich Himmler got out of his car and entered Gestapo Headquarters at Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin. He had a bad habit of turning up at unreasonable hours which meant that in a way, his appearance was not unexpected. Guards sprang to attention as he entered, clerks hurriedly busied themselves over meaningless pieces of paper. He wore full black dress uniform as Reichsführer-SS and the face behind the silver pince-nez was a blank as usual.