Cold Harbour (3 page)

The old priest frowned. “Not now, Colonel, now I must hear confession.”

Osbourne glanced across the empty church to the confessional boxes. “Not much custom, Father, but then there wouldn’t be, not with that butcher Dietrich expected.” He put a hand on the priest’s chest firmly. “Inside, please.”

The priest backed into the sacristy, bewildered. “Who are you?”

Osbourne pushed him down on the wooden chair by the desk, took a length of cord from his greatcoat pocket. “The less you know, the better, Father. Let’s just say all is not what it seems. Now hands behind your back.” He tied the old man’s wrists firmly. “You see, Father, I’m granting you absolution. No connection with what happens here. A clean bill of health with our German friends.”

He took out a handkerchief. The old priest said, “My son, I don’t know what you plan, but this is God’s house.”

“Yes, well I like to think I’m on God’s business,” Craig Osbourne said and gagged him with the handkerchief.

He left the old man there, closed the sacristy door and crossed to the confessional boxes, switched on the tiny
light above the door of the first one and stepped inside. He took out his Walther, screwed a silencer on the barrel and watched, the door open a crack so that he could see down to the entrance.

After a while, Dietrich entered from the porch with a young SS Captain. They stood talking for a moment, the Captain went back outside and Dietrich walked along the aisle between the pews, unbuttoning his greatcoat. He paused, took off his cap and entered the other confessional box and sat down. Osbourne flicked the switch, turned on the small bulb that illuminated the German on the other side of the grille, remaining in darkness himself.

“Good morning, Father,” Dietrich said in bad French. “Bless me for I have sinned.”

“You certainly have, you bastard,” Craig Osbourne told him, pushed the silenced Walther through the flimsy grille and shot him between the eyes.

Osbourne stepped out of the confessional box and at the same moment the young SS Captain opened the church door and peered in. He saw the General on his face, the back of his skull a sodden mass of blood and brain, Osbourne standing over him. The young officer drew his pistol and fired twice wildly, the sound of the shots deafening between the old walls. Osbourne returned the fire, catching him in the chest, knocking him back over one of the pews, then ran to the door.

He peered out and saw Dietrich’s car parked at the gate, his own Kubelwagen beyond. Too late to reach it now for already a squad of SS, rifles at the ready, were running towards the church, attracted by the sound of firing.

Osbourne turned, ran along the aisle and left from the back door by the sacristy, racing through the gravestones of the cemetery at the rear of the church, vaulting the low stone wall, and started up the hill to the wood above.

They began shooting when he was half way up and he ran, zigzagging wildly, was almost there when a bullet plucked at his left sleeve sending him sideways to fall on one knee. He was up again in a second and sprinted over the brow of the hill. A moment later he was into the trees.

HE RAN ON
wildly, both arms up to cover his face against the flailing branches and where in the hell was he supposed to be running to? No transport and no way of reaching his rendezvous with that Lysander now. At least Dietrich was dead, but, as they used to say in SOE in the old days, a proper cock-up.

There was a road in the valley below, more woods on the other side. He went sliding down through the trees, landing in a ditch, picked himself up and started to cross and then to his total astonishment, the Rolls-Royce limousine came round the corner and braked to a halt.

René Dissard of the black eye-patch was at the wheel in his chauffeur’s uniform. The rear door was opened and Anne-Marie looked out. “Playing heroes again, Craig? You never change, do you? Come on, get in, for heaven’s sake and let’s get out of here.”

AS THE ROLLS
moved off, she nodded at the blood-soaked sleeve of his uniform. “Bad?”

“I don’t think so.” Osbourne stuffed a handkerchief inside. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Grand Pierre was in touch. As usual, just a voice on the phone. I still haven’t met the man.”

“I have,” Craig told her. “You’re in for a shock when you do.”

“Really? He says that Lysander pick-up isn’t on. Heavy fog and rain moving in from the Atlantic according to the Met. boys. I was supposed to wait for you at the farm and tell you, but I always had a bad feeling about this one. Decided to come along and see the action. We were on the other side of the village by the station. Heard the shooting and saw you running up the hill.”

“Good thing for me,” Osbourne told her.

“Yes, considering this effort wasn’t really any of my business. Anyway, René said you were bound to come this way.”

She lit a cigarette and crossed one silken knee over the other, elegant as always in a black suit, a diamond brooch at the neck of the white silk blouse. The black hair was cut in a fringe across her forehead and curved under on each side, framing high cheekbones and pointed chin.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded petulantly.

“You,” he said. “Too much lipstick as usual, but otherwise, bloody marvellous.”

“Oh, get under the seat and shut up,” she told him.

She turned her legs to one side as Craig pulled down a flap revealing space beneath the seat. He crawled inside and she pushed the flap back into position. A moment later, they went round a corner and discovered a Kubelwagen across the road, half-a-dozen SS waiting.

“Nice and slow, René,” she said.

“Trouble?” Craig Osbourne asked, his voice muffled.

“Not with any luck,” she said softly. “I know the officer. He was stationed at the Château for a while.”

René stopped the Rolls and a young SS Lieutenant walked forward, pistol in hand. His face cleared and he holstered his weapon. “Mademoiselle Trevaunce. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Lieutenant Schultz.” She opened the door and held out her hand which he kissed gallantly. “What’s all this?”

“A wretched business. A terrorist has just shot General Dietrich in St. Maurice.”

“I thought I heard some shooting back there,” she said. “And how is the General?”

“Dead, Mademoiselle,” Schultz told her. “I saw the body myself. A terrible thing. Murdered in the church during confession.” He shook his head. “That there are such people in this world passes belief.”

“I’m so sorry.” She pressed his hand in sympathy. “You must come and see us again soon. The Countess had rather a fondness for you. We were sorry to see you go.”

Schultz actually blushed. “Please convey my felicitations, but now I must delay you no longer.”

He shouted an order and one of his men reversed the Kubelwagen. Schultz saluted and René drove away.

“As always Mamselle has the luck of the Devil,” he observed.

Anne-Marie Trevaunce lit another cigarette and Craig Osbourne said softly, “Wrong, René, my friend. She
is
the Devil.”

AT THE FARM,
they parked the Rolls-Royce in the barn while René went in search of information. Osbourne removed his tunic and ripped away the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt.

Anne-Marie examined the wound. “Not too bad. It hasn’t gone through, simply ploughed a furrow. Nasty, mind you.”

René returned with a bundle of cloths and a piece of white sheeting which he proceeded to tear into strips.

“Bandage him with this.”

Anne-Marie set about the task at once and Osbourne said, “What’s the score?”

“Only old Jules here and he wants us out fast,” René said. “Change into this lot and he’ll put the uniform in his charcoal burner. There’s a message from Grand Pierre. They’ve been on the radio to London. They’re going to pick you up by torpedo boat off Leon tonight. Grand Pierre can’t make it himself, but one of his men will be there—Bleriot. I know him well. A good man.”

Osbourne went round to the other side of the Rolls and changed. He returned wearing a tweed cap, corduroy jacket and trousers, both of which had seen better days, and broken boots. He put the Walther in his pocket and gave the uniform to René who went out.

“Will I do?” he asked Anne-Marie.

She laughed out loud. “With three days growth on your chin perhaps, but to be honest, you still look like a Yale man to me.”

“That’s really very comforting.”

René returned and got behind the wheel. “We’d better get moving, Mamselle. It’ll take us an hour to get there.”

She pulled down the flap under the seat. “In you go like a good boy.”

Craig did as he was told and peered out at her. “I’m the one who’s going to have the last laugh. Dinner at the Savoy tomorrow night. The Orpheans playing, Carroll Gibbons singing, dancing, girls.”

She slammed the flap shut, climbed in and René drove away.

LEON WAS A
fishing village so small that it didn’t even have a pier, most of the boats being drawn up on the beach.
There was the sound of accordion music from a small bar, the only sign of life, and they drove on, following a rough track past a disused lighthouse to a tiny bay. A heavy mist rolled in from the sea and somewhere in the distance a foghorn sounded forlornly. René led the way down to the beach, a flashlight in his hand.

Craig said to Anne-Marie, “You don’t want to go down there. You’ll only spoil your shoes. Stay with the car.”

She took off her shoes and turned, tossing them into the back of the Rolls. “Quite right, darling. However, thanks to my Nazi friends, I do have an inexhaustible supply of silk stockings. I can afford to ruin one pair for the sake of friendship.”

She took his arm and they went after René. “Friendship?” Craig said. “As I recall, in Paris in the old days it was rather more than that?”

“Ancient history, darling. Best forgotten.”

She held his arm tight and Osbourne caught his breath sharply, aware that his wound was really hurting now. Anne-Marie turned her head and looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“Damned arm hurting a bit, that’s all.”

There was a murmur of voices as they approached and found René and another man standing beside a small dinghy, an outboard motor tilted over on its stern.

“This is Bleriot,” René said.

“Mamselle.” Bleriot touched his cap, acknowledging Anne-Marie.

“This is the boat, I presume?” Craig demanded. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with it?”

“Around the point and you will see the Grosnez light, Monsieur.”

“In this fog?”

“It’s very low lying.” Bleriot shrugged. “I’ve put a signalling lamp in and there’s this.” He took a luminous signal ball from his pocket. “SOE supply these. They work very well in the water.”

“Which is where I’m likely to end up from the look of the weather,” Craig said as waves lapped in hungrily across the beach.

Bleriot took a lifejacket from the boat and helped him into it. “You have no choice, Monsieur, you must go. Grand Pierre says they are turning the whole of Brittany upside down in their search for you.”

Craig allowed him to fasten the straps of the lifejacket. “Have they taken hostages yet?”

“Of course. Ten from St. Maurice, including the Mayor and Father Paul. Ten more from farms in the surrounding area.”

“My God!” Craig said softly.

Anne-Marie lit a Gitane and passed it to him. “The name of the game, lover, you and I both know that. Not your affair.”

“I wish I could believe you,” he told her as René and Bleriot ran the dinghy down into the water. Bleriot got in and started the outboard. He got out again.

Anne-Marie kissed Craig briskly. “Off you go like a good boy and give my love to Carroll Gibbons.”

Craig got into the dinghy and reached for the rudder. He turned to Bleriot who held the boat on the opposite side from René. “Pick up by MTB, you say?”

“Or gunboat. British Navy or Free French, one or the other. They’ll be there, Monsieur. They’ve never let us down yet.”

“So long, René, take care of her,” Craig called as they pushed him out through the waves and the tiny outboard motor carried him on.

ROUNDING THE POINT
and facing the open sea, he was soon in trouble. The waves lifted in white caps, the wind freshening, and water slopped over the sides so that he was already ankle-deep. Bleriot was right. He could see the Grosnez light occasionally through gaps in the fog blown by the wind and he was steering towards it when suddenly the outboard motor died on him. He worked at it frantically, pulling the starting cord, but the dinghy drifted helplessly, pulled in by the current.

A heavy wave, long and smooth and much larger than the others swept in, lifting the dinghy high in the air, where it paused in a kind of slow-motion, water pouring in.

It went down like a stone and Craig Osbourne drifted helplessly in the water, buoyed up by his lifejacket.

It was intensely cold, biting into his arms and legs like acid so that even the pain of his wound faded for the time being. Another large wave came over and he drifted down the other side into calmer water.

“Not good, my boy,” he told himself. “Not good at all,” and then the wind tore another hole in the curtain of the fog and he saw the light of Grosnez, he heard a muted throbbing of engines, saw a dark shape out there.

He raised his voice and called frantically. “Over here!” and then he remembered the luminous signal ball that Bleriot had given him, got it out of his pocket, fumbling with frozen fingers, and held it up in the palm of his right hand.

The curtain of fog dropped again, the Grosnez light disappeared and the throb of the engines seemed to be swallowed by the night.

“Here, damn you!” Osbourne cried and then the torpedo
boat drifted out of the fog like a ghost ship and bore down on him.

He had never felt such relief in his life as a searchlight was switched on and picked him out in the water. He started to flail towards it, forgetting his arm for the moment and stopped suddenly. There was something about the craft, something wrong. The paintwork for example. Dirty white merging into sea green, a suggestion of striping for camouflage and then the flag on the jackstaff flared out with a sharp crack in a gust of wind and he saw the swastika plainly, the cross of the upper left-hand corner, the scarlet and black of the Kriegsmarine. No MTB this but a German E-boat and as it slid alongside, he saw painted on the prow beside its number the legend
Lili Marlene
.