Hands of the Traitor (7 page)

"Perfectly, Herr Colonel."

Sophie experienced an unexpected
thrill of anticipation. She remembered seeing American actors in
films at the Picture Palace in Calais before the invasion, and the
young men looked dazzling. Maybe the meeting would be good after
all.

Three hours later she heard the
sound of a single-engined aircraft, and ran into the open to watch
the ungainly high-winged plane with German markings approach low
over the pine trees. The Storch resembled
une tipule
, a crane fly, as it appeared to
hover over the high wire fence before dropping gently to the ground
inside the military compound.

*

CAPTAIN ALEC Rider watched the Storch bump
to a halt on the sandy soil. He'd read about this German
reconnaissance plane, but it amazed him that anything could fly so
slowly -- and stop within such a short distance.

"Find out what the hell
they put in that bomb!"

They'd not given him much to go on.
Major Jackson wanted results, but his instructions were impossibly
vague. Doubtless someone high up was leaning on the Major and had
told him nothing either. All Alec knew was that he was just one of
twenty SOE operatives dropped into northern France two days ago to
scour the countryside for operational launch sites for doodlebugs.
So here he was a few miles outside Calais, wearing civilian
clothes, spying with no military back-up. And what had he been told
to look for?

"Germ warfare or
something, Captain. It's probably in small gold bottles. They tell
me you speak pretty good French. Just blend into the
countryside."

Fantastic. An Englishman speaking
schoolboy French in an area probably long devoid of young men.
Perhaps he could try passing himself off as the village idiot.
Major Jackson should be here himself. He'd make a passable imbecile
-- as would the man at the top who'd thought up a plan like
this.

So here was the famous Fieseler Storch.
Often used by top brass. A clever plane, unbelievably slow, and
perfect for reconnaissance. It could land almost anywhere -- as it
had now proved. Alec could recall small details quickly. Five
German soldiers began to turn the plane, probably preparing it for
a quick takeoff.

He noticed that the two tall
passengers were being treated with great respect, even though the
younger one seemed to be just a lad.

In his right hand Alec held a large
French knife courtesy of SOE, Special Operations Executive, the
group that ran these clandestine operations. A French implement was
essential for a worker, and this chef's knife had been the only
genuine article available at the training camp. What did they
expect him to do with it? Butcher the whole German army?

"Use it for cutting
things. There'll be plenty of reeds there. Try and look
useful."

Alec sighed wearily. Major Jackson was
a star.

The young passenger carried a black
attaché case, clutching it to his chest. He'd already pushed two
soldiers away when they offered to carry it.

A young woman came slowly out of the
largest hut, obviously aware of the reaction she caused amongst the
soldiers as she walked. Even at this distance she looked gorgeous.
What would a beautiful blonde be doing on a German site? He smiled
to himself. The answer was rather obvious when he came to think of
it.

The Storch's engine rose in
pitch and the plane rolled forward. It lifted slowly over the high
security fence, banked sharply to the right, and disappeared behind
the plantation of fir trees on the low hill beyond the camp. Alec
Rider turned his attention to the reeds. It wouldn't do to attract
attention by standing still, although his worker's pass was up to
date
-- or
so Major Jackson had assured him. Even his clothes were supposed to
be genuine French. At the far end of the reed bed he'd hidden his
kitbag containing clothing, six grenades, and a Sten Mk IV. The
guards might look dozy but from his training he knew they were as
sharp as the knife in his hands -- the chef's knife of surgical
steel. Sharp. Razor sharp.

*

"THIS IS Fraulein Bernay."

Colonel Röhm introduced the French
girl to the Americans as though she was some priceless work of art,
his voice almost hushed.

Sophie heard the Colonel talking in
English, and although she couldn't speak the language well, she
guessed she was being offered as a play object.

The older one with the pointed beard
was obviously a leader, a big man who had all his wits about him.
She'd met men like this before. They were iron, totally without
feeling. Her Uncle Jacques had been like that. Her mother had said
it was because of the trenches in the Great War. Her father had
fought in the same war, and he'd been a warm, affectionate man. It
was nothing to do with trenches. Uncle Jacques was just a hard,
cold stone.

The younger man looked less
attractive; a lanky
garçon
who was trying to grow some sort of moustache. He kept
looking around as though scared out of his head. Everyone knew that
American soldiers were working their way up from the south, along
with the English. An American caught working for the Germans would
surely face the firing squad.

She looked at the boy and winked. It was
required of her. Whatever the tall young American had in that black
case must be important -- if it was vital to the German war effort.
A chain connected the case to his wrist. Perhaps it contained a
bomb for Hitler!

"Sophie, you will be sitting next to
Herr Heinman's son this evening. Later you will entertain him while
I speak to his father. I am sure you know what to do." The Colonel
spoke quietly, but laughed loudly. His French was
excellent.

The older Heinman produced a key and said
something to his son in English. The attaché case was released from
young Frank's wrist and placed on the end of the long table where
everyone could see it while they ate. Sophie stared at it. The Port
of Calais would fall soon, and the English would surely pay
handsomely for the contents of that case. By changing sides again,
she could continue to ensure her safety.

"As you say, Herr Colonel, I know
exactly what to do."

*

AS THE SUN disappeared behind a bank
of black clouds on the horizon, Alec Rider decided it was time to
put his knife away. No Frenchman would be cutting reeds later than
this.

The blonde girl started to walk
towards the perimeter fence where he was standing. The bouncy
spirit that glowed through her eyes fascinated him. He'd been
married for ten years, had a nine-year-old son, but there could be
no harm in just looking.

"
Bonjour
," she called through the wire. The girl
smiled as she spoke, and wet her lips with her tongue. She must be
a born flirt.

He just nodded. Somehow he couldn't
bring himself to trust his French without giving his nationality
away. Nevertheless his training on observation paid off. The links
in the high fencing had been carelessly mended in the corner.
Perhaps it was the result of bomb damage from one of the many raids
on these weapons sites. The hasty repair was pathetic. A Boy Scout
could get through there in the dark.

"
Comment ça va?
"

He smiled in response to the French
girl's inquiry but said nothing. A vicious dark-haired Alsatian,
and a sentry with an MP38, were watching from the base of the guard
tower, but it was unlikely he'd raised any suspicions.

"My name is Sophie," she said in
French. "Who are you?"

Dark clouds moving in from the coast
were bringing the daylight to an abrupt end. He shook his head and
smiled again, still keeping his mouth firmly closed. Then he
returned to the cover of the reeds.

He had two overwhelming memories. The
black case on the young man's wrist, and the girl with the blonde
hair. The case might contain priceless secrets on Hitler's missile
program. And because Sophie was French, not German, she might be
persuaded to part with vital military information. A double source
of top secret information could be within his grasp.

It would be dark soon. Tonight he would go
back for the case -- and back for the girl.

Chapter
7

ALEC RIDER
crouched in the shelter of the
reeds and tried to absorb every detail in the German compound. V1
bombs. Fieseler 103s to give them their correct name. The details
of the airborne craft had been drilled into him during seven days
of intensive training. Doodlebugs. Buzz bomb was another popular
term back home. The giveaway sign was the metal ramp on slender
legs facing the south east coast of England.

He realized that the German military
were in a no-win position. If they lit the compound at night they'd
draw attention to the site from the air, but total darkness invited
a commando attack from the ground. On balance, darkness was
probably the safer option. Any sort of lighting would break the
essential blackout requirements, and British and American bombers
were roaming the skies more freely now that German troops were
being rushed south to the defense of Normandy.

Presumably there were some Fieseler
doodlebugs on this site, although the long catapult ramp was empty.
Alec stood up slowly, trying not to make a sound. The concrete
store, heavy with camouflage netting, must be the bunker that held
Hitler's terror weapons. The only sound of life on the site came
from the large wooden hut by the flag pole. People seemed to be
eating in there, and occasionally a flash of light shone from the
door as a guard or possibly a servant entered.

A frog croaked in the wide drainage
ditch. Another replied from close by. One of the guard dogs barked,
and Alec could hear a murmur of voices as the door to the main hut
opened again. Two sentries started to laugh in their high tower as
they shared a joke. He buried his face in his hands. It had been
easy to make decisions on training exercises. You didn't end up
dead when you got it wrong.

The door of the large hut opened for
longer now, and enough light escaped from the smoky room to reveal
the blonde girl slipping out arm in arm with the young man who'd
arrived in the Storch. He still carried that black case. They made
their way to one of the smaller huts. Alec wondered if the man
would keep the case chained to his wrist while....

A light snapped on in the window,
bathing a large part of the compound in a blaze of
yellow.

One of the guards shouted something in
German and a hand reached up quickly from inside the hut to pull
the blackout blind shut. The dogs barked for a couple of minutes.
Then the site became silent.

Alec Rider fingered his heavy knife.
The girl might not want to be liberated; not all French people were
ready to receive the British and American troops with joy. Some
were doing very nicely, thank you, with the Germans. But at least
the girl had not informed on him. She must have been suspicious,
the way he'd held back from speaking to her.

He waited and watched for an hour
before moving forward to find the weak spot he'd noticed earlier in
the wire link fencing. A sound inside the compound. Perhaps a
guard, or one of those damn Alsatians.

Then silence again.

The clouds began to thin slightly to
show a clear outline of the huts against the horizon. According to
his luminous watch it was only just after three a.m.. Surely it
wasn't getting light already. The massive doors to the concrete
bunker were open, and he could see two men working on a V1 bomb.
Maybe the Germans were preparing for an early-morning
launch.

As Alec squeezed under the high wire
fence, he froze as he saw a faint silhouette of someone coming his
way. It looked like the French girl. He stayed, crouched tight
against the wire, his chef's knife at the ready. As he reached for
the Sten, the so-called Woolworth gun, he realized the shots would
attract far too much attention. She might be gorgeous -- but he
could kill her with the knife if necessary. The reeds had done
little to take the edge off the blade. He increased his grip and
the weapon felt reassuring in his hand.

The girl stopped short of the wire,
bent down, and began scratching in the earth. The light on the
horizon caused a glint from an implement in her hands. A stone
rolled from under his foot as he shifted his weight. She stood up
and a gasp came from her lips when she saw him.

"Monsieur,
vous êtes
français?
"

"
Non, je suis anglais
." He was taking one hell of a
risk by revealing his nationality. The knife would never take the
girl by surprise now. One cry from her would bring the guards
running -- if they'd not been alerted already.

The dogs stayed silent.

The frogs croaked.

He clutched the chef's knife, ready to
silence the girl for ever.

"You have been spying on me,
Englishman?" she asked in French.

"No, I am spying on the camp." He
gasped at his own audacity. Admitting to being a spy while wearing
civilian clothes was the act of a fool, but the girl seemed to be
willing him into openness.