"Quite a man, Martineau. Extraordinary record, and an American."
"Yes, sir. He told me once that his great-grandmother had immigrated to Virginia in the eighteen-flfties from England. Small town in Lancashire, I believe."
"It sounds a kind of exotic name for Lancashire."
"Not unknown, General. I believe it goes back to Norman times."
He realized that Eisenhower was simply stalling for time while he thought about things. He got up and peered out the window, then turned. "Flight Officer Drayton. She's very young."
"I'm aware of that, General. However, she is in a unique position to help us."
"Of course. You really think this could work?"
"I believe we can put Colonel Martineau and Flight Officer Drayton into France with no trouble. 1 can't see any problem with their continuing onward to Jersey by boat. Martineau has unique authority. No one would dare question it. If you want to query the Reichsfuhrer's personal representative, the only way you can do it is to ring the Reiehsfuhrer himself in Berlin."
"Yes, 1 see that," Eisenhower said.
"However, once they're in Jersey, the game is really wide open. There is no way I can give you any assurance about what happens. We'll be entirely in Martineau's hands." There was silence for a while, and then Munro added, "They should be in Jersey by Thursday. Martineau has until Sunday. That's his deadline. It's only a few days."
"And a hell of a lot of lives depending on it." Eisenhower sat down behind the desk. "Okay, Brigadier. Carry on and keep me informed at all times."
Hornley Field had been an aero club before the war. It had also been used as a temporary fighter station during the Battle of Britain. It was now used for clandestine flights to the continent only, mainly Lysanders and the occasional Liberator. The runway was grass, but long enough. There was a tower, several huts and two hangars.
The commanding officer was a Squadron Leader Barnes, an ex-fighter pilot who'd lost his left arm in the summer of 1940. The pilot of the Lysander was a flight lieutenant named Peter Green. Sarah, standing at the window, saw him now, bulky in his flying jacket and helmet, standing by the plane.
It was two-thirty in the morning, but warm enough, the stove roaring away. "Can I offer you some more coffee, Flight Officer?" Barnes asked Sarah.
She turned and smiled. "No thanks. I shouldn't imagine Westland included a toilet facility in their Lysander."
He smiled. "No, I'm afraid there wasn't the room."
Martineau stood by the stove, hands in the pockets of his leather trenchcoat. He wore the tweed suit and a dark slouch hat and smoked a cigarette. Carter sat by the stove, tapping his stick restlessly on the floor.
"We're really going to have to get moving, I'm afraid," Barnes said. "Just the right conditions at the other end if you go now. Too light if we wait."
"I can't imagine what's happened to the brigadier," Carter said.
"It doesn't matter." Martineau turned to Sarah. "Ready to go?"
She nodded and very carefully pulled on her fashionable leather gloves. She was wearing a black coat over her dress, nipped in at the waist with large shoulders, all very fashionable.
Barnes put a very large fur-lined flying jacket over her shoulders. "It might be cold up there."
"Thank you."
Martineau picked up their two suitcases and they went out and crossed to the Lysander where Green waited. "Any problems?" Martineau asked.
"Coastal fog, but only in patches. Slight headwind." He glanced at his watch. "We'll be there by four-thirty at the outside."
Sarah went first and strapped herself in. Martineau passed up the suitcases then turned and shook hands with Carter. "See you soon, Jack."
"YouVe got the call sign," Carter said. "All Cresson has to do is send that. No message needed. We'll have a Lysander out to the same field at ten o'clock at night of the same day to pick you up."
Martineau climbed in next to Sarah and fastened his seat belt. He didn't look at her or say anything, but he took her hand as Green climbed into the pilot's seat. The sound of the engines shattered the night. They started to taxi to the far end of the runway and turned. As they started to roll between the two lines of lights, gradually increasing speed, the Austin Princess turned in through the main gate, hesitated for the sentry's inspection then bumped across the grass to the huts. As Dougal Munro got out, the Lysander lifted over the trees at the far end of the field and was swallowed by darkness.
"Damnation!" he said. "Held up at Baker Street, Jack. Something came up. Thought I'd just make it."
"They couldn't wait, sir," Barnes told him. "Might have made things difficult at the other end."
"Of course," Munro said.
Barnes walked away and Carter said, "What did General Eisenhower have to say, sir?"
"What could he say. Jack? What can any of us say?" Munro shrugged. "The ball's in Harry Martineau's court now. All up to him."
"And Sarah Drayton, sir."
"Yes, I liked that young woman." Aware suddenly that he had spoken in the past tense, Munro shivered as if at an omen. "Come on. Jack, let's go home," he said, and he turned and got back into the Austin.
Sophia Cresson waited on the edge of a wood beside the field seven miles northwest of Granville which was the designated landing strip. She was on her own and stood beside an old Renault van smoking a cigarette in her cupped hands. The door of the van was open, and a Sten gun lay ready to hand on the passenger seat. There was also the homing beacon. She'd waited at the bar until Gerard had received the message that they had actually left Hornley. Timing was critical in these things.
She wore a woolen cap pulled down over her ears against the cold, an old fur-lined hunting coat of Gerard's, belted at the waist, and slacks. She wasn't worried about problems with any security patrol she might run across. She knew all the soldiers in the Granville area and they knew her. As for the police, they did as they were told. There wasn't one she didn't know too much about. In the back of the van were several dead chickens and a few pheasants. Out on another black-market trip, that was her cover.
She checked her watch and switched on the homing beacon. Then she took three torches from the van and ran forward into the broad meadow and arranged them in an inverted L-shape with the crossbar at the upwind end. Then she moved back to the van and waited.
The flight had been completely uneventful, mainly because Green was an old hand, with more than forty such sorties under his belt. He had never belonged to the school of thought that recommended approaching the French coast below the radar screen. The one time he had tried this tactic the Royal Navy had fired at him. So, it was at 8,000 feet that the Lysander crossed over the Cherbourg Peninsula and turned slightly south.
He spoke over the intercom. "Fifteen minutes, so be ready."
"Any chance of running into a night fighter?" Martineau asked.
"Unlikely. Maximum effort strike by Bomber Command on various towns in the Ruhr. Jerry will have scrambled every night fighter in France to go and protect the Fatherland."
"Look!" Sarah cut in. "I can see lights."
The L-shape was clearly visible below as they descended rapidly. "That's it," Green told them. "I've landed here twice before so I know my stuff. In and out very fast. You know the drill, Colonel."
And then they were drifting down over the trees into the meadow, rolling forward across the lights. Sophie Cresson ran forward, waving, the Sten gun in one hand. Martineau got the door open, threw out the suitcases and followed them. He turned to help Sarah. Behind her, Green reached for the door and slammed it shut, locking the handle. The engine note deepened to a full-throated roar as the Ly-sander raced across the meadow and took off.
Sophie Cresson said, "Come on, let's get out of here. Bring your suitcases while I get my lamps." They followed her to the van and she opened the rear door. "There's just enough room for both of you to sit behind the two barrels. Don't worry, I know every flic in the district. If they stop me, all they'll do is take a chicken and go home."
"Some things never change," Sarah said.
"Hen, a Breton girl?" Sophie flashed her torch on Sarah's face and grunted. "My God, now they send little girls." She shrugged. "In you get and let's be out of here."
Sarah crouched behind the barrels, her knees touching Martineau as Sophie drove away. So, this was it, she thought, the real thing. No more games now. She opened her handbag and felt for the butt of the Walther PPK inside. The little Belgian automatic Kelly had given her was in her case. Would she be able to use them if necessary? Only time would tell. Martineau lit a cigarette and passed it to her. When she inhaled, nothing had ever felt better, and she leaned back against the side of the van feeling wonderfully, marvelously alive.
It was noon before she awoke, yawning and stretching her arms. The small bedroom under the roof was plainly furnished but comfortable. She threw back the sheets and crossed to the window. The view across the walls down to the harbor was really quite special. Behind her the door opened and Sophie came in with a bowl of coffee on a tray.
"So, you're up."
"It's good to be back." Sarah took the bowl from her and sat on the window seat.
Sophie lit a cigarette. "You've been here before?"
"Many times. My mother was a de Ville. Half-Jersey, half-Breton. My grandmother was bom at Paimpol. I used to come over to Granville from the island when I was a little girl. There was a fishermen's cafe on the quay that had the finest hot rolls in the world. The best coffee."
"Not anymore," Sophie said. "The war has changed everything. Look down there."
The harbor was crammed with shipping. Rhine barges, three coasters and a number of German naval craft. It was a scene of considerable activity as dockers unloaded the contents of a line of trucks on the quay into the barges.
"They're definitely sailing for the islands tonight?" Sarah asked.
"Oh yes. Some for Jersey, the rest on to Guernsey."
"How do you find them?"
"The Boche?" Sophie shrugged. "I'm a reasonable woman. I don't want to hate anybody. I just want them out of France."
"It's just that we hear such bad things about them in England."
"True," Sophie said. "SS and Gestapo are devils, but they frighten the hell out of the ordinary German soldier as much as they do anyone else. In any case, we've got those among our own people who are as bad as the Gestapo. Daman's milice. Frenchmen who work with the Nazis to betray Frenchmen."
"That's terrible," Sarah said.
"It's life, child, and what it means is you can never really trust anyone. Now get dressed and come downstairs and we'll have some lunch."
At Gavray in what had once been the country home of the count of that name, Heini Baum sat at one end of the table in the officers' mess of the 41st Panzer Grenadiers and smilingly acknowledged the cheers as the officers toasted him then applauded. When they were finished, he nodded his thanks.
The young colonel of the regiment, a veteran of the Russian Front, his black panzer uniform scattered with decorations, said, "If you could manage a few words, Herr Field Marshal. It would mean so much to my officers."
There was a worried look in Hofer's eye when Baum glanced at him, but he disregarded it and stood up, straightening his tunic. "Gentlemen, the Fuhrer has given us a simple task. To keep the enemy off our beaches. Yes, I say our beaches. Europe, one and indivisible, is our goal. The battle will be won on those beaches. There is no possibility of our losing. The destiny of the Fuhrer is God-given. So much is obvious to anyone with a grain of sense." His irony was lost on them as they gazed up, enraptured, drinking in every word. He raised his glass. "So, gentlemen, join me. To our beloved Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler."
"Adolf Hitler!" they chorused.
Baum tossed his glass into the fire, and with a stirrring of excitement, they all followed him. Then they applauded again, forming two lines as he walked out, followed by Hofer.
"Rather heavy on the glasses, I should have thought," Hofer said as they drove bark to Cressy where Rommel had established temporary headquarters at the old castle there.
"You didn't approve?" Baum said.
"I didn't say that. Actually, the speech was rather good."
"If the Herr Major will excuse my saying so, it was heavily over the top, to use theatrical vernacular," Baum told him.
"I take your point," Hofer said. "On the other hand, it's exactly what they wanted to hear."
Crazy, Baum thought. Aw I the only ntnu- tnnn left alive? But by then, they were drawing into the courtyard of the castle. He went up the steps fast, acknowledging the salutes, Hofer trailing him, all the way up to the suite on the second floor.
