"But I recall her very well," Kaufmann told him. "She was Jewish and worked for the Socialist Underground."
"I was told that by the time you'd finished with her she couldn't even walk to the firing squad."
"That's not true. The firing squad never came into it She was hanged in cellar number three. Standard procedure. What was she to you?"
"I loved her."Martineau raised his pistol.
Kaufmann cried, "Don't be a fool. We can do a deal. I can save your life, Martineau, believe me."
"Is that so?" Harry Martineau said, and shot him between the eyes, killing him instantly.
He pushed the heavy motorcycle off its stand and rode away. He was perfectly in control in spite of what he had just done. No emotion-nothing. The trouble was, it hadn't brought Rosa Bernstein back, but then, nothing ever could.
He rode through a maze of country lanes for over an hour, working his way steadily westward. Finally, he turned along a narrow country lane, grass growing so tall on either side that it almost touched. The farmhouse in the courtyard at the end of the lane had seen better days, a window broken here and there, a few slates missing. Martineau got off the bike, pushed it up on the stand and crossed to the front door.
"Heh, Pierre, open up!" He tried the latch and hammered with his fist and then the door opened so suddenly that he fell on his knees.
The muzzle of a Walther touched him between the eyes. The man holding it was about forty and dressed like a French farm laborer in beret, corduroy jacket and denim trousers, but his German was impeccable. "Please stand, Major Martineau, and walk inside very slowly."
He followed Martineau along the corridor into the kitchen. Pierre Duval sat at the table, tied to a chair, a handkerchief in his mouth, eyes wild, blood on his face.
"Hands on the wall and spread," the German said, and ran his hands expertly over Martineau, relieving him of the Schmeisser and the Mauser.
He moved to the old-fashioned telephone on the wall and gave the operator a number. After a while he said, "Schmidt? He turned up. Yes, Martineau." He nodded. "All right,fifteen minutes."
"Friend of yours?" Martineau inquired.
"Not really. I'm Abwehr. Kramer's the name. That was the Gestapo. I don't like those swine any more than you do, but we all have a job to do. Take your helmet and raincoat off. Make yourself comfortable."
Martineau did as he was told. Evening was falling fast outside, the room was getting quite dark. He put the helmet and coat down and stood there in the SS uniform, aware of Pierre on the other side of the table, eyes glaring wildly, leaning back in his chair, his feet coming up.
"What about a drink?"Martineau asked.
"My God, they told me you were a cool one," Kramer said admiringly.
Pierre lunged with his feet at the edge of the table ramming it into the German's back. Martineau's left hand deflected the pistol and he closed, raising his knee. But Kramer turned a thigh, raising stiffened fingers under Martineau's chin, jerking back his head. Martineau hooked Kramer's left leg, sending the German crashing to the ground, going down with him, reaching for the wrist of the hand that held the pistol, smashing his fist into the side of Kramer's neck, aware of the pistol exploding between them,.
There was the distinct sound of bone cracking and the German lay still, alive, but moaning softly. Martineau got to his feet feeling suddenly weak and faint, opened the table drawer, spilling its contents on the floor and picked up a breadknife. He moved behind Pierre and sliced the ropes that bound him to the chair. The old Frenchman jumped up, pulling the gag from his mouth.
"My God, Harry, I've never seen so much blood."
Martineau glanced down. The front of the SS blouse was soaked in blood. His own blood and there were three bullet holes that he could see, one of them, smoldering slightly from powder burns.
He slumped into the chair. "Never mind that."
"Did you get him, Harry? Did you get Kaufmann?"
"I got him, Pierre," Martineau said wearily. "When's the pickup?"
"The old aero club at Fleurie at seven, just before dark."
Martineau looked at his watch. "That only gives me half an hour. Youll have to come too. Nowhere else for you to go now."
He got to his feet and started for the door, swaying a little, and the Frenchman put an arm around him. "Youll never make it, Harry."
"I'd better because about five minutes from now the Gestapo are going to be coming up that road,"Martineau told him and went outside.
He got the bike off the stand and threw a leg across the saddle, then he kicked it into life, feeling curiously as if everything was happening in slow motion. Pierre climbed up behind and put his arms around him and they rode away, out of the yard and along the lane.
As they turned into the road at the end, Martineau was aware of two dark sedans coming up fast on his left. One of them, skidded to a halt, almost driving him into the ditch. He swung the motorcycle to the right, wheels spinning as he gunned the motor, was aware of shots, a sudden cry from Pierre, hands loosening their hold as the old Frenchman went backward over the rear wheel.
Martineau roared down the road toward the canal at the far end, swerved onto the towpath, one of the Gestapo cars following close. Two hundred yards away there was a lock, a narrow footbridge for pedestrians crossing to the other side. He rode across with no difficulty. Behind him, the car braked to a halt. The two Gestapo operatives inside jumped out and began to fire wildly, but by then he was long gone.
He could never remember clearly afterward any details of that cross-country ride to Fleurie. In the end, it was all something of an anticlimax anyway. The field had been keadq2tarters of an aero club before the war. Now it lay derelict and forlorn and long disused.
He was aware of the roaring of the Lysander's engine in the distance as he rode up to the airfield himself. He paused, waiting, and the Lysander came in out of the darkness for a perfect touchdown, turned and taxied toward him,. He got off the bike, allowing it to fall to one side. He promptly fell down himself, got up again and lurched forward. The door swung open and the pilot leaned across and shouted, "I wasn't too sure when I saw the uniform."
Martineau hauled himself inside. The pilot reached over and closed and locked the door. Martineau coughed suddenly, his mouth and chin red.
The pilot said, "My God, you're choking on your own blood."
"I've been doing that for at least four years now," Martineau said.
The pilot had other things on his mind, several vehicles converging on the other end of the runway by the old buildings. Whoever they were, they were too late. The Bristol Perseus engine responded magnificently when fully boosted. The Westland Lysander was capable of taking off from rough ground, fully loaded, in two hundred and forty yards. At Fleurie, that night, they managed it in two hundred, clearing the cars at the end of the runway and climbing up into the gathering darkness.
"Very nice,"Martineau said. "I liked that." And then he fainted.
"So, he's in Dorset, is he?" Munro said. "Doing what?" "Not very much from what I can make out." Carter hesitated. "He did take two bullets in the left lung, sir, and..." "No sad songs, Jack, IVe other things on my mind.
You Ye had a look at my ideas on a way of getting him into Jersey? What do you think?"
"Excellent, sir. I would have thought it all pretty foolproof, at least for a few days."
"And that's all we need. Now, what else have you got for me?"
"As I understand it from your preliminary plan, sir, what you're seeking is someone to go in with him to establish his credentials. Someone who knows the island and the people and so on?"
"That's right."
"There's an obvious flaw, of course. How on earth would you explain their presence? You can't just pop up in the island after four years of occupation without some sort of an explanation."
"Very true." Munro nodded. "However, I can tell by the throb in your voice that youVe already come up with a solution, so let's get on with it, Jack. What have you got?"
"Sarah Anne Drayton, sir, age nineteen. Born in Jersey. Left the island just before the war to go out to Malaya where her father was a rubber planter. He was a widower apparently. Sent her home a month before the fall of Singapore."
"Which means she hasn't been back in Jersey since when?" Munro looked at the file. "Nineteen thirty-eight. Six years. That's a long time at that age, Jack. Girls change out of all recognition."
"Yes, sir."
"Mind you, she's young."
"WeVe used them as young as this before, sir."
"Yes, but rarely and only in extremes. Where did you find her?"
"She was put forward for SOE consideration two years ago, mainly because she speaks fluent French with a Breton accent. Her maternal grandmother was Breton. Naturally, she was turned down because of her youth."
"Where is she now?"
"Probationer nurse here in London at Cromwell Hospital."
"Excellent, Jack." Munro stood up and reached for his jacket. "We'll go and see her. I'm sure she'll prove to be intensely patriotic."
That the Luftwaffe had been chased from British skies, the Blitz had long gone, was a tale for the front pages of newspapers only. In the spring of 1944 night attacks were renewed on London, using the JU88S with devastating results. That Sunday was no exception. By eight o'clock the casualty department at Cromwell Hospital was working flat out.
Sarah Drayton had been supposed to come off shift at six. She had now been on duty for fourteen hours without a break, but there were simply not enough nurses or doctors available. She worked on, helping with casualties laid out in the corridors, trying to ignore the crump of bombs falling in the middle distance, the sound of fire engines.
She was a small, intense girl, dark hair pushed up under her cap, her face very determined, the hazel eyes serious. Her gown was filthy, stained with blood, her stockings torn. She knelt to help the matron sedate a panic-stricken young girl who was bleeding badly from shrapnel wounds. They stood up to allow porters to carry the girl away on a stretcher.
Sarah said, "I thought night raids were supposed to be a thing of the past."
"Tell that to the casualties," the matron said. "Almost a thousand of them in March. Right, you clear off, Drayton.
You'll be falling down soon from sheer fatigue. No arguments."
She walked wearily along the corridor, aware that the sound of the bombing now seemed to have moved south of the river. Someone was sweeping up broken glass, and she stepped around them and moved to the reception desk to book out.
The night clerk was talking to two men. She said, "Actually, this is Nurse Drayton coming now."
Jack Carter said, "Miss Drayton, this is Brigadier Munro and I'm Captain Carter."
"What can I do for you?" Her voice was rather low and very pleasant.
Munro was much taken with her at once, and Carter said, "Do you recall an interview you had two years ago? An Intelligence matter?"
"With SOE?" She looked surprised. "I was turned down."
"Yes, well, if you could spare us some time we'd like a word with you." Carter drew her over to a bench beside the wall, and he and Munro sat on either side of her. "You were born in Jersey, Miss Drayton?"
"That's right."
He took out his notebook and opened it. "Your mother's name was Margaret de Ville. That has a particular interest for us. Do you by any chance know a Mrs. Helen de Ville?"
"I do. My mother's cousin, although she was always Aunty Helen to me. She was so much older than I was."
"And Sean Gallagher?"
"The General? Since I was a child." She looked puzzled. "What's going on here?"
"In good time, Miss Drayton," Munro told her. "When did you last see your aunt or General Gallagher?"
"Nineteen thirty-eight. My mother died that year and my father took a job in Malaya. I went out to join him."
"Yes, we know that," Carter said.
She frowned at him for a moment, then turned on Munro. "All right, what's this about?"
"It's quite simple really," Dougal Munro said. "I'd like to offer you a job with SOE. I'd like you to go to Jersey for me."
She stared at him in astonishment, but only for a moment, and then she started to laugh helplessly and the sound of it was close to hysteria. It had, after all, been a long day.
"But, Brigadier," she said. "I hardly know you."
"Strange chap, Harry Martineau," Munro said. "IVe never known anybody quite like him."
"From what you tell me, neither have I," Sarah said.