Codename Eagle (2 page)

“Sorry,” Paul said quickly, jumping to his feet and stamping on the smouldering embers.

Didier smiled. “I know the news is bad, but there’s no need to burn the house down; my mother wouldn’t be pleased.”

Paul forced a smile and sank down onto his chair. “I feel useless, Didier. The war gets worse by the day and we sit here doing nothing.”

“All we can do is wait,” Didier said.

“It’s not as though I’m meant to be here, anyway,” Paul continued, as though not hearing Didier’s words. “I should have been in England long before now. I could have joined the army and been out there fighting somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” Didier said. He was a year and a half older than his friend, and more patient by nature. “You’re not actually old enough to join the army.”

“I’ll lie about my age. I wouldn’t be the first.”

“Last year you said you wanted to stay here to continue the fight. Remember?”

“Of course I remember, but it’s been six months and we haven’t fought anyone. We haven’t done a thing. I thought we’d at least get Gaston Rouzard, but someone even beat us to that.”

“To keep him quiet,” Didier said. “And that means whoever killed Gaston is still around. Biding his time. Listen, it’s like Henri says, it’s difficult to be an effective resistance group when there are no Germans here to fight.”

Didier was right. France, along with Belgium and the Netherlands, had surrendered to Germany in June of the previous year. Since then, the northern part of the country and the whole Atlantic coast had been occupied by the Germans, while the southern Free Zone was officially out of the war and being governed by a hastily organized French administration based in the town of Vichy.

But few were fooled. The Germans held southern France in an iron grip: even though they were not actually present, their spies, informers and collaborators certainly were.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” said Paul in response to Didier’s earlier words.

“What do you mean?”

“If the Germans won’t come to us, then I’ll have to go to them.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“Spain first, and then England and the army. The weather’s improving, I’ll ask Henri if I can make another attempt to get across the mountains into Spain. Just because the guides turned out to be murderers and thieves last time doesn’t mean we can’t find others to do the job.”

“Yes,” Didier said nodding, “there are plenty of true patriots who will take you across. So you’ve changed your mind – you do want to leave after all?”

Paul hesitated. “Look, Didier, you’ve all been so good to me; I feel at home here. And I don’t have any other home now, not since…”

Didier knew what his friend had been about to say. “I can understand you hating the Germans, Paul, after what they did to your parents. And I can understand you wanting your revenge.”

“But it’s not just about revenge, and I don’t hate all Germans. There are good and bad Germans.”

“And good and bad French and good and bad English,” Didier said, smiling.

Paul nodded. “It’s the Nazis and everything they stand for that I hate. And in one way I admire the Germans.”

“Really?” Didier asked, raising his eyebrows. “In what way, exactly?”

“They’re ruthless. And if we want to win this war we have to be ruthless too. I want to part of it.”

“Our chance will come, Paul. Be patient for a little longer.”

“I can’t,” Paul said, shaking his head. “My mind’s made up, I’m going to speak to Henri.”

“And what about Josette?”

The burning wood crackled and spat, and the flames from the stove cast flickering shadows on the walls of the small sitting room.

“Yes,” Paul said, looking into the flames. “What about Josette?”

T
hey came in the night like phantoms, dropping noiselessly from a starlit sky, and landed soft as shadows on the frosty grassland.

And as the six silent men began gathering in the billowing material that trailed behind them, a seventh parachute floated down, the steel container suspended beneath it thudding more heavily onto the ground.

High above, a Junkers Ju-52 was circling, turning northwards, the steady drone of its engines already getting fainter.

The parachutists had landed in an area covering no more than 600 metres, following a single narrow beam of light that had guided the aircraft to the drop zone. The beam continued to shine as two of the men collected the chutes and followed their leader towards the light source.

The three others hurried to the container. One took responsibility for the parachute while the others disconnected the steel cylinder and picked it up, one at each end. Then all three followed the others towards the light.

Since the landing, not a single word had been spoken by any of the six men. They all knew exactly what to do. They were dressed in paratrooper jumpsuits, but were members of the Brandenburg Regiment, a German army Special Forces unit specializing in commando-type covert operations behind enemy lines.

The regiment was made up mainly of Germans who had lived abroad and were fluent in other languages. All six of these men could speak French, and the officer in charge spoke English too.

Aside from their ability with languages, they were elite soldiers: experts in fighting with small arms and in unarmed combat, and highly skilled in demolition and sabotage.

As they approached, a middle-aged Frenchman switched off the powerful torch, and the silhouette of a heavy lorry with a canvas covered back became visible to the soldiers.

The German officer wasted no time with introductions. “I’ll ride in the cab with you,” he said in perfect French to the waiting man. “The others will go in the back.”

The Frenchman, short and stocky, with a bright red face and a bulging beer gut, watched in silence as the soldiers swiftly and efficiently lifted the steel container into the back of the lorry and climbed in.

Then the Frenchman and the German officer got into the cab, the engine rumbled into life and the lorry moved off across the flat expanse of the Plateau de Sault in the direction of the small town of Bélesta.

In the back, the Brandenburgers were working quickly. First they removed their jumpsuits. Beneath them, two wore the uniforms of French gendarmes; the others were dressed like farm workers.

In the cab, the officer was also removing his jumpsuit, to reveal another gendarme uniform.

The driver smiled, nodding his approval. “Very convincing.”

“Of course it’s convincing,” the officer said quickly. “It’s genuine. You have our car ready?”

“It’s in a barn, back at the wood yard. Along with my own vehicle.”

“And this lorry?”

“It belongs to my two friends at the yard.”

“You’re certain they can be trusted?”

“Oh, yes. They’re simple lads, but trustworthy; they’ll do exactly as they’re told and keep their mouths shut. Times are hard, so for them it’s a chance to make a little extra. It’s different for me, of course, a matter of principle, and I’m honoured to meet you.”

The officer ignored the ingratiating comment. “Tell me about the car.”

The Frenchman grinned. “It was easy enough to arrange, through a friend in Toulouse. You’d think the police would look after their vehicles more carefully, wouldn’t you? The fuel to run it is another matter; not so easy to come by since rationing.”

“But you’re being paid to make sure we have fuel, and anything else we need, come to that.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining,” the Frenchman said quickly. He smiled again and wiped the back of one hand across his stubby, bent nose. “I’m very happy with the financial arrangements, and I have a contact who gets me fuel. He can get almost anything.”

“Then you are fortunate.”

“But for me it’s not just the money. I’m doing it for the cause. For us.”

The officer slowly turned his head to stare at the driver. “Us?”

“Yes, us,” the driver said, nodding his head vigorously. “I may be French, but I’m a Nazi like you, and I believe in the same things as you do.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes, most certainly.
Heil Hitler
!”

As he spoke, the Frenchman lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and attempted a German salute, but the flat glass windscreen prevented him from fully extending his arm, making the gesture look ridiculous.

The officer made no attempt to disguise his contempt. “To many of your countrymen you’d be considered a traitor. In the north they are already sending tiny wooden coffins marked with a cross to suspected collaborators.”

If the Frenchman was perturbed by the German’s comment he didn’t let it show. “I’ve heard of that. Wooden coffins or little drawings; like kids’. They’re misguided fools. They’ll learn in time.”

“You think so? Well, let me make this clear: I’m German, but I am
not
a Nazi. I’m a soldier doing my duty for my country, and that’s all.”

“I understand, of course, but—”

“Then understand this,” the officer interrupted, giving the Frenchman no option but to hold his tongue. “I’ll work with you because, unfortunately, we need people like you.” He paused, then his voice hardened. “But don’t ever describe you and me as
us
.”

The Frenchman said nothing more.

The vehicle had moved off the plateau and was on the stretch of road dropping down through the forest of Bélesta. After ten minutes the driver turned off onto a mud track, which meandered for more than a kilometre through rows of giant silver fir trees. The dim headlights picked out stacks of cut logs dotted along the fringes of the track and then illuminated a large wood-built house.

There was a sudden, quick movement in the darkness, and the headlights briefly lit up the black eyes of a snarling dog, tethered on a long chain.

“The barn’s at the back,” the Frenchman said, ignoring the dog and driving past the house into a wide yard with a barn at the far side.

Two men stood waiting by the back door of the house.

“Pull up here,” the officer ordered. “We’ll unload our equipment and then I’ll take a look at the car.”

The driver brought the lorry to a standstill, got out and went to the waiting men, who were in their mid-twenties. They stood watching while the German soldiers swiftly carried clothes, light weapons, a radio transmitter and other equipment into the farmhouse – and even cartons of cigarettes and slabs of wrapped chocolate.

The dog was still barking angrily.

“Can’t you shut that thing up?” the German officer said to one of the younger men.

“No need; there’s no one to hear. And he’ll stop barking when he gets fed up.”

The officer nodded and was about to go into the house when he stopped and studied the two young Frenchmen standing side by side. It was like seeing double. They were twins, big and strong-looking, and even in the dull yellow light spilling from one window and the open door it was obvious that they were identical. The officer made no comment; he simply looked from one face to the other before nodding again and going inside.

“He’s a miserable sod,” the lorry driver said quietly to the twins. “And ungrateful. No appreciation of what we’re doing for him, or of the risks we’re taking.”

The twins exchanged a look, apparently sharing the same thought. “Doesn’t worry Eddie and me, we’re only in it for the money,” one of them said. “And so as long as they keep paying, they can be as miserable as they like. When do we get the final payment?”

“The big payment,” his brother added with a grin.

“When it’s all over,” the older man said. “Before they leave.” He glanced through the window into the house. “They’re a tough lot, though, these Brandenburgers. They say every one of them carries a suicide pill in case he’s captured behind enemy lines.”

“They’re not behind enemy lines,” the twin called Eddie said. “We’re not at war with anyone in the Free Zone.”

“But they can’t just drop in on us,” the older man insisted, “not according to the new laws. This must be important, and I’d like to know why.”

“So ask them.”

“Maybe I will.”

Eddie smiled. “Come on inside, we’ll make coffee.”

Fifteen minutes later, the three Frenchman and six Germans sat on a variety of unmatched chairs and benches around a huge, scrubbed wooden table, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Old oil lamps, belching as much smoke as flame, made the air dense and fuggy.

Outside, the dog continued to bark.

The German officer looked at one of the twins. “You said that animal would stop barking.”

The twin smiled. “It was my brother, Gilbert, who told you that. I’m Eddie, the good-looking one, and the younger one.”

“By ten minutes,” Gilbert chipped in.

“And the fact is,” Eddie continued, “the dog always barks when there are strangers around. That’s what he’s here for. But don’t worry, he’s on a chain.”

“A long chain,” Gilbert said.

The German officer ignored the attempt to lighten the mood as he looked from one twin to the other. They really were identical. Above average height, broad-shouldered and muscular, with dark, curly hair and square faces.

“You live alone here?” the officer asked.

“Just us and our barking dog,” Eddie said, still smiling.

“And the horse,” his brother added.

“Oh, yes,” Eddie said. “And the horse. He helps us shift the logs.”

“And he’s a lot more use to me than you are,” the older twin laughed, thumping his younger brother on the arm.

“Look, can we get on?” the man who had driven the lorry said impatiently. “I must get back to Lavelanet. I have to work in the morning and I start early.”

“We’ll go over the details and you can leave,” the officer told him. “Is the target still at the address you’ve given us?”

The Frenchman nodded. “He’s been living there for six months or more.”

“And there’s no indication that he suspects he’s being watched?”

“None. I’ve been careful.”

“I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

“You want me to show you the way?”

The officer shook his head. “We have maps of the town and the area.” He turned to the twins. “But I’d like one of you to go back to the plateau with two of my men. They need to fix the best place for our plane to land for the pick-up.”