Codename Eagle (4 page)

Josette stood up. “No, thanks, we’re leaving.”

She dropped a few coins onto the table and she and Didier made their way from the terrace, conscious of the bar owner’s eyes on them.

“Rugby!” Josette hissed between clenched teeth.

W
hen the sun shone and the sky was clear, the Plateau de Sault looked a benign and beautiful place.

Wide, flat grasslands and wetlands, dotted here and there with exotic wild orchids, formed a seemingly safe and secure haven for grazing cattle. At almost a thousand metres above sea level, the air was crisp and clean, and the snow-topped mountains ringing the plateau completed a picture postcard-like scene.

But the Plateau de Sault was deceptive, keeping close its treacherous secrets. Snow and ice had spent centuries eroding the limestone surface, remorselessly carving out hundreds of underground caves and deep, open surface wells.

In winter, the plateau was frequently cut off from the surrounding communities. Wind-whipped snow would pile up in massive drifts, covering the frozen waters. Then no one would venture onto the snow and risk plunging through hidden ice to certain death.

Even when at its best, like today, the plateau offered hints of its darker side: the stunted trees, bent into grotesque shapes by howling winter winds that came shrieking through the wide valley; the wide cracks in the sun-baked surface crust, fragile and crumbling, areas that grazing animals sensed were best to avoid. The plateau was always ready to lure the unwary away from solid ground towards sudden danger.

Gilbert Noury and his twin, Eddie, knew the plateau as well as most, but even they were constantly alert there, because the plateau was ever-changing, its shifting waters creating new hazards and traps.

Gilbert had elected to return to the plateau with two of the Brandenburgers, leaving his younger-by-ten-minutes brother, Eddie, at the wood yard.

The three men were looking for possible landing sites for the returning Junkers Ju-52. But after a couple of hours, the two Germans seemed finally to have come to the conclusion that Victor Forêt’s boast that he had chosen the best place was correct.

The ground on which they stood was one of the flattest parts of the entire plateau. Just as importantly, it was relatively free of water, was solid underfoot and had no hidden pools lurking in crucial parts of what was to become a temporary landing strip.

The two Brandenburgers had spoken mainly to each other, and in German. They had said little to Gilbert unless they had a question for him, and then they spoke in French. They had listened carefully to his answers, but offered no further conversation.

Gilbert watched them walk the proposed landing strip twice in each direction, looking for any hidden rocks or ruts that might damage the aircraft’s undercarriage. They took their time, eyes peeled, knowing that anything missed could mean disaster for the aircraft and its crew.

Then they walked the strip again, this time looking for signs of hidden pools or sink holes. There were a few, but on the edges, far enough from the centre to make landing relatively straightforward for a skilled pilot. And Ju-52 pilots were all extremely experienced in operating in hostile conditions.

After the second close inspection, Gilbert decided to ask the two Germans their names. The soldier who seemed to be in charge smiled for the first time. “We’re the Brothers Grimm,” he said, laughing.

“Who?” Gilbert said, his face blank.

“You must have heard of us,” the soldier continued, still grinning. “We tell fairy stories. I’m Jacob, and my brother there is Wilhelm.”

Gilbert turned to the second German. “He’s … he’s joking isn’t he? Pulling my leg?”

The second soldier was stony-faced. “No, he’s always deadly serious.”

“And we’re here to do serious work, so we’d best get on with it,” the first soldier said, his smile vanishing. He looked at the grass strip. “The Ju-52 needs about two hundred metres for landing and take-off, so this is good. And there’s enough room for the plane to turn into the wind.” He turned back towards the narrow road that ran between the tiny villages of Espezel and Bélesta. The lorry was parked there, a hundred metres or so from where they stood. “That’s my only concern. We’re just a little too visible to anyone who might be passing.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Gilbert told him. “The road is almost never used at night; it’s hardly used during the day.”

The German nodded, apparently convinced. “And you have the landing torches prepared?”

“Exactly as you ordered. They just need putting into place and lighting. But we’ll do that when…”

He stopped and all three men looked at the road again.

A blue, open-backed van, belching smoke from its exhaust, was moving quickly towards them from the direction of Bélesta.

“Hardly used, eh?” the soldier said, his eyes fixed on the van.

The vehicle appeared to be passing by without stopping, but just as it reached the lorry, the driver jammed on the brakes and the van bumped to a skidding standstill on the grass at the edge of the road.

The two soldiers exchanged a look and waited. The driver’s door opened and the sound of creaking hinges drifted across the plateau.

A man stepped out and stared in their direction. He waved, and they heard him shout. “Eddie, is that you?”

“Shit!” Gilbert breathed. “It’s my cousin.”

“Get rid of him,” the German in charge hissed.

But it was too late. The man was already walking towards them, limping as he strode across the grass. “Or is that Gilbert?” he yelled. “You two should wear signs to give us a chance.”

“I’ll have to talk to him,” Gilbert said quietly to the soldiers.

“I said get rid of him!”

“I can’t just tell him to clear off. Look, he’s harmless. Thinks he’s a bit of a big shot, likes to brag, but it’s all talk. He’s no trouble, really.” He waved at the approaching man. “It’s me, Alain: Gilbert. And what’s wrong, why are you limping?”

The young man waited to speak until he reached the other three, extending his hand to his cousin. “Gilbert, how are you? What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I’m just…” Gilbert glanced at the two wary Germans and decided that the safest option was to change the subject. “Why the limp, Alain? What happened to your leg?”

The newcomer spat on the ground. “It was that bastard, Victor Forêt.”

The two soldier’s eyes met again briefly, but they remained silent as the newcomer continued.

“I had an argument with him in the bar. He grabbed me when I wasn’t ready for him. Pushed me, and I tripped; fell onto one of those tables on the terrace. It’s just a bruise, that’s all. I wasn’t ready for him.”

Gilbert smiled, trying to keep the conversation away from the men he was with. “And what did you fight over?”

“It didn’t get as far as a fight, lucky for him. Just because he got his nose broken playing rugby years ago he thinks he’s a tough guy.”

“Whereas you really are a tough guy, eh, Alain?” Gilbert said with a laugh that was a bit too forced. “And, anyway, Victor always knows best about rugby.”

The newcomer was smaller and slighter than the twins, but had the same dark, curly hair and square jaw. “We didn’t argue about rugby,” he said, scowling.

“What, then?”

“Victor was going on about how grateful we ought to be to the Germans for getting us out of the war. I told him if that’s how he feels, then he’s nothing more than a filthy collaborator. That’s when it turned nasty.”

Gilbert froze. He had no idea of his cousin’s sympathies regarding the war; they’d never discussed it.

Gilbert was standing next to the German in charge, but the other soldier, moving like a shadow, had slipped behind Alain. His hand went slowly behind his back as he reached for the pistol tucked into his belt under his jacket. He stared calmly at his colleague, waiting for a signal to take action.

Completely unaware, Alain continued. “But forget about Victor,” he said to his cousin. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here, Gilbert. And you didn’t introduce me to your friends.”

“No,” Gilbert said, “no, I didn’t.” He glanced nervously at the man at his side. “This is, er…”

“Pierre,” the German said in French as he offered his hand to Alain. “And that’s my friend Marcel.”

Alain shook hands with the first German and then turned to the second, whose hand was already extended. He smiled and nodded as they shook.

“Judging from your accent you’re not from around these parts,” Alain said to the man who had introduced himself as Pierre.

“No, we’re from over to the west, the other side of Toulouse.”

Alain nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “So what are you doing up here on the plateau?”

The cover story was prepared. “We’ve been thinking of bringing some cattle here. Your cousin was kind enough to show us around.”

Alain laughed. “Gilbert knows nothing about cattle. If it’s grazing land you want you should have come to me. I was born over in Espezel, I know everyone up here. Speak to old Jacques Moutillon, he’ll tell you all about grazing rights. I’m on my way there now; I can take you to see him if you want.”

“Thanks, but no. We’ve seen enough, and it’s not what we’re looking for.”

Alain still looked as though he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I don’t know why you asked Gilbert. All the twins know about is cutting down trees and selling off the wood.”

“Yeah, and I’d best get back to the yard,” Gilbert said quickly. “I’ve left Eddie on his own, and you know what he’s like – he’d rather sit around all day than do any work.”

“I’ll come with you,” Alain said. “I was going over to the house, to fetch … to sort a few things, but it can wait. It’s been ages since you, me and Eddie had a few beers and a good laugh.”

The soldier behind Alain moved his hand towards the back of his jacket again, and this time Gilbert saw the move. Instantly he realized that his cousin was in mortal danger. “No, not today, Alain,” he said hurriedly. “We have to get some work done. Maybe sometime next week, eh?”

“Oh, come on, a couple of beers won’t hurt you.”

“No!” Gilbert spat out the word too loudly and forcefully. “Not today. We don’t have time. I’m sorry, Alain.”

Alain’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing and becoming hostile. “Suit yourself.”

Gilbert was desperate to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Next week, eh?” he said brightly.

His cousin hesitated, looking from one stranger to another. He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said sulkily.

“No, definitely,” Gilbert told him. He turned towards the road, took his cousin’s arm and pushed him ahead so that he was leading the way back towards the parked vehicles. “You’re right; it’s been too long. We’ll get the beers in and make a night of it, eh?”

The Germans followed. After a few paces, the soldier in charge gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head to his colleague, who nodded and released the hold on the pistol in his belt.

H
auptmann Kurt Lau was a conscientious officer committed to doing his duty. He was as fiercely loyal to his men as they were to him. They made a formidable team, which was one of the reasons why they had been kept together during an uncertain period for the Brandenburgers.

The entire regiment had moved to northern France the previous year, anticipating a major role in the invasion of Britain. But Operation Sea Lion had been suddenly postponed in September and many said that now it would never happen.

Other units of the regiment had moved on to major conflicts in Yugoslavia and Greece, but Kurt Lau and his team had been detailed a series of small hit and run operations. They were all important, but this one was something special; Lau had been told just enough to be certain of that.

His orders were clear. If the first objective of capturing the target and taking him back to northern France proved impossible, there was only one alternative – the target had to be eliminated. The knowledge he held was judged to be so important that it could not be allowed to pass into enemy hands.

Lau and the soldier driving the stolen Citroën police car were on their way back to the wood yard. The recce had gone smoothly; the house could be approached front and back. They would snatch the target early the following morning, return to the yard, radio headquarters, and as long as weather conditions stayed fair, be picked up by the Ju-52 that same night. It was a simple plan, but Lau was taking nothing for granted. Experience had taught him otherwise.

They were on the long road that snaked up through the forest of Bélesta. The climb was swift and steep, and with each twisting turn they glimpsed sudden falls and deep gorges on either side.

“Good countryside, eh, Erich?” Lau said to the driver. “Reminds me a little of the Black Forest.” He laughed. “But not so nice, eh? Not like home.”

Lau would never usually address one of his team by his first name, even when they were out of earshot of other serving soldiers. But Erich Steidle was the exception. In his late thirties, Steidle was a good ten years older than Lau. Both men came from the city of Freiburg, in the south-west of Germany, close to the border with France. But while Lau’s career before the war had been as a professor of languages at the city’s ancient university, Steidle had laboured in the vineyards of both Germany and France, where he had learned his French.

Coincidence had brought the two together in the Brandenburgers, but since then, Steidle, hard and as tough as teak, had taken the younger man under his wing. He was devoted to the officer and protective in an almost fatherly way.

“I’ll be glad to get back to the north, sir,” Steidle said, manoeuvring the Citroën around another sharp bend. “It’s strange here – no sign of the war and no sign of the enemy. At least in the north we know that almost everyone is our enemy.”

Lau smiled. “Yes, it is strange here: France, but not France. But the Vichy government likes to think it’s in charge of things in the south and we must allow them that.” He glanced out at the huge trees. “One day this war will be over, Erich.”

“Could be a long time, though, sir.”