Even in the subdued glow of the moonlight, Emma could see the fear in the Étienne Dufoy’s eyes.
“How much farther?” asked the Frenchman. His hand gripped Emma’s shoulder as he peered at her through thick-lensed glasses. “Are we lost?”
“Not far now.” She tried to sound reassuring. “We are close to the landing zone. You must be quiet.”
Étienne did not seem entirely happy with the young woman’s answer. Reluctantly, he released his grip and turned his head from her. As his owlish eyes became downcast, he tried to contain his fear.
“Don’t worry, Étienne.” She smiled at him then. “This time tomorrow, you will be in London, drinking Scotch and complaining about the weather. Just like an Englishman.”
Étienne managed a weak smile in response. They had stopped again on this mud track for what seemed like the hundredth time, listening for any sound that should not be there. The path snaked its way over the fields and through the dense woodland that covered this little corner of Normandy. Every noise was amplified by the stillness of the night. Their stop-start progress was beginning to unnerve the Resistance leader.
Emma looked at Étienne again. He seemed more like a frightened office clerk than one of the most wanted men in France. Maybe even the dauntless Étienne Dufoy could feel fear—and who could blame him after an interrogation at Avenue Foch, site of the Gestapo headquarters in Paris? Étienne Dufoy knew the names and code names of Resistance fighters in the capital and had personally set up cells all over France. His capture could have been a disaster but, somehow, he had found the courage to elude his captors, jumping from a moving truck on his way to Fresnes Prison.
Now, the man from Marseilles found himself deep in the Normandy countryside, waiting for an English plane to land in a field in the dead of night and rescue him. And who does he have to deliver him to his salvation this night? thought Emma. A bodyguard provided by the local Resistance who is barely able to shave, and a twenty-two-year-old English girl, the only member of the Special Operations Executive within miles.
Emma Stirling had carried out precisely two previous missions in occupied France. In each of these, Emma, code name Madeleine, had acted merely as a courier of papers. Never before had she been tasked to bring men out, and it probably showed. Is it any wonder Étienne’s nerves are shot through? she thought.
As they moved off, Emma became acutely aware of how incongruous their little party must look. She wore a raincoat two sizes too big for her to disguise the Sten gun slung on her shoulder. Her long, dark hair was worn up, obscured by a man’s hat, and she wore trousers instead of a skirt, although Emma could never be described as boyish.
A few short months ago, she had been in the Special Operations Executive training program, learning Morse code, sabotage, and silent killing. Now, she was leading a boy and a man in his mid-forties across a mud track in a foreign land toward their appointment with a Westland Lysander, which would fly Emma and her most important charge to safety.
Olivier, their bodyguard, was young, but not so young he had failed to notice Emma. As she stooped on one knee to check a map reference, he clearly tried to peer down her shirt.
“Stay alert, Olivier,” she told him sharply.
“Of course,” he replied, his young pride hurt.
The local Resistance leader had assured Emma that Olivier was a good man, but the leader had been so effusive in his praise of Olivier she had begun to wonder if the boy was his relative. Emma was nervous, for Étienne was a highly wanted man. How the Gestapo would love to catch him tonight, and anybody with him. Emma had to remove the stories of torture from her mind—worse for the women even than the men—or she would be completely unable to function as an agent.
“They like to rape the girls,” a local Maquis leader had informed her once, “so they have power over them. Or mutilate them if they won’t talk.” Emma had not slept that night.
She guided the men along the muddied track for another hundred yards or so. Then a shadow crossed the horizon, and Emma froze. Had she seen movement, or was it just the wind stirring the trees? Perhaps it was merely nerves that caused her to halt suddenly in front of the copse directly ahead of them, but she didn’t think so. Her left hand went out to the side, the signal for her companions to halt.
“What is it?” whispered Étienne nervously.
“Ssshhh.” Emma brought the Sten higher but kept it pointing low, just as she’d been trained, to allow for the upward tug of the recoil. She aimed directly into the trees. She kept still, her stance rigid, the silence around them as complete and unchanging as the darkness. Neither of the men dared break it, even though they could see nothing but trees ahead of them. Emma stared into the shadows. Someone was there, standing in the trees. She knew it.
Emma’s hand went to the Sten and, as quietly as she could, she pulled the bolt back to cock the weapon. Emma could hear her own heart now; she almost forgot to breathe. Was her mind playing tricks? Get a grip, she thought. The patch shifted shape. No, she was right, there was someone there. Emma brought the Sten up with a jerk, her finger tightening on the trigger.
The silence was finally shattered when Emma heard a familiar voice, deep and resonant. “Careful, Madeleine. That thing goes off accidentally, and you’ll have the whole German army down on us.”
“Harry?” asked Emma disbelievingly. “Harry Walsh? Is that you?”
The unseen figure took this as his signal to emerge from the trees, appearing before their eyes like an apparition. A tall, well-built man with sharp, clear eyes and a shock of straight, dark hair, he was dressed in a dark civilian raincoat, black leather gloves, and a plain scarf to shield him from the cold. His face was prematurely aged with the knowing, slightly jaded look of a combat veteran, and he had a dangerous air about him. Something about the way he carried himself hinted strongly at a capacity for violence.
“Don’t use that name here, Madeleine.” It was spoken quietly, but there was steel in his voice. Walsh walked up to the little group as if his anomalous presence was both expected and entirely normal. He turned to the older man.
“You must be Étienne Dufoy?” He held out his hand in greeting.
“Yes,” answered Étienne, who seemed bemused by this stranger, but because the Englishman appeared to know his pretty guide, Étienne reached out to shake his hand.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked, the question tinged with anger. Damn it, couldn’t Baker Street trust her to complete the mission on her own without sending Harry Walsh to nursemaid her? “No one told me about a change of plan.”
Ignoring Emma, Walsh tightened his grip on Étienne’s hand and yanked the smaller man toward him. Étienne gasped as Walsh wrapped a burly arm around the Frenchman’s neck and forced him down onto his knees, facing away from Walsh. There was a further strangled gurgle of alarm from Étienne before Walsh put his full weight behind the next move. His knee went into the older man’s back, and he jerked Étienne’s head sharply backward, snapping his neck in an instant. He let the body slump to the ground under its own weight.
“My God, Harry, no!”
“That is not Étienne Dufoy,” explained Walsh, as calmly as if Emma had chosen to board the wrong bus. “We need to get going. This wood will be full of Germans in minutes.”
Olivier stood rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the lifeless body of his charge on the woodland floor.
“Come on, lad.” The Englishman’s voice jerked Olivier out of his stupor, and the youth scrambled frantically in his coat pocket for the ancient Lebel revolver his uncle had given him. He brought the gun up and pointed it into Walsh’s face.
“Do not move,” he stammered, but the Englishman calmly advanced toward him.
“Don’t be bloody stupid, boy,” Walsh commanded in perfect French. “It’s a trap, a Gestapo trap. That is not Dufoy, and if you want to get out of here alive, you will do exactly as I tell you.”
“Don’t shoot,” begged Emma.
“Stop, stay back,” hissed the startled young man as he cocked the revolver.
“Do as he says, Olivier.” Emma was worried the inexperienced boy would simply gun down Walsh in his panic. “He is with us.”
But Olivier did not lower his gun. Instead, his confused eyes darted between the figures around him: from Harry to Emma, then to the prone and lifeless body of the man he had been escorting, now back to Emma once more, as if seeking guidance from her that he was still too scared to accept. Walsh waited till the boy’s eyes were on Emma’s. Then he took a half pace forward and, in a blur of movement, snaked out his left hand, rotating the palm so that it reached the boy’s revolver on the inside of the barrel. In one fluid movement, he pushed it outward and away, levering it from the young man’s grasp. Walsh brought his right hand up smartly in time to receive the handle of the gun as it spun from Olivier’s hand. Emma marveled at the speed of movement, and the boy found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun. He let out a startled whimper, assuming the next breath would be his last.
“I’m not going to shoot you, boy, but I will leave you here if you don’t follow me now.”
Olivier felt like a foolish child. He started to edge back down the path.
“Olivier, no, come with us,” said Emma. “It’s the only way.” But Olivier would not listen. He turned and ran.
“Don’t go back that way. They’ll find you.” Walsh might as well have been talking to himself, for Olivier had fled.
Walsh took Emma by the arm. “This way,” he said.
But Emma did not move. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at the lifeless body of the impostor lying in the mud.
“Let’s not make it easy for them,” Walsh said. He steered her toward a gap in the trees.
Galland relished the rare tranquility of a night sky free from enemies. He had forgotten how calming it could be to fly a plane back to base without having to constantly alter its course or keep a ready eye out for Allied fighters.
There had been no hostile presence over Peenemünde that day, but the end result had been the same. Another burned pilot dragged screaming from the wreckage. No one could doubt the man’s courage; agreeing to fly that thing was like offering to be strapped to a Roman candle. Possibly, the pilot had imagined a career elevated to dizzying heights following a successful display in front of the Reichsmarschall, and perhaps it could have been, but not now. What a terrible price to pay when a test flight ends in failure. Of course, the scientists could go back to their drawing boards, but the pilot would never fly again.
Maybe he’d simply been one of that special breed of men who willed themselves beyond natural boundaries, defying God, fate, and gravity to fly higher and faster than anyone before them. In a way, that would be even worse; for how could such a man ever adapt to wheelchairs and hospital beds, to limbs permanently frozen by burned tendons, fingers melted together by flames?
Galland knew it served no purpose to dwell on such things but, try as he might, he was unable to remove the image of the horribly injured pilot from his mind. By the time the medics had reached him, his hair was burned away, along with his eyebrows, lashes, and much of the skin on his face, making him unrecognizable as the fresh-faced, recklessly hopeful youth he’d been minutes earlier.
There were operations these days, or so Galland understood, that could make you resemble a man again, after a fashion. He himself had seen old comrades transformed into walking waxworks, which is why the sight of the ill-fated pilot made him shudder involuntarily.
Goering had caught his frown of distaste and misunderstood. “He was a volunteer!” As if that made the smoke-choked screams as they led the man away any less pitiful. Before Galland could even consider an answer, Goering rounded on the scientists he blamed for yet another delay to the completion of his miracle weapon.
“What in providence happened? You said it was working!”
“It was . . . It did, Reichsmarschall,” stammered a youthful technician, clutching a clipboard defensively to his chest as if it was a shield. “It flew perfectly . . .”
“Flew perfectly?” Goering was apoplectic now. “It fell out of the sky like a kite when the wind drops, and you say it flew perfectly?” Goering brought his swagger stick down on the nearest desk with such force he almost broke it in two. “I demand to know what went wrong!”
“It’s possible . . .” the young scientist looked terrified. “It is likely . . . the plane is still too heavy. At low speed, without altitude, it is unable to cope with the extra weight of the liquid-fuel, rocket-powered engine.”
“Gaerte said this would happen. He warned me, but I chose to ignore him. Instead, I listened to you . . . children! Very well, if you are incapable of providing me with an operational jet fighter, we will relieve you of your duties, and you can make your contribution somewhere less comfortable than here.” For soldiers, this was usually code for the Eastern Front. Galland wondered what Goering had in mind for the unfortunate scientists.
“Get me Gaerte!” Goering was screaming like a spoiled child. “Get him here now!”
While the Reichsmarschall raged, Galland quietly of-ferred his excuses and made to leave. Nobody seemed to notice his departure. If the injured pilot received half as much attention as Goering’s tantrum, he might even pull through, thought Galland. The memory of the disfigured young man would stay with him, as it did any time one of his brotherhood was killed or maimed.
Goering had been predictably unstable that day and remained a liability to them all, but he had been right about one thing. When the new Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet tried to land, it tumbled out of the sky. It did not make Galland think of a child’s toy, but instead of Icarus, flying too close to the sun and fatally burning his wings. The pilot had corrected the worst of the dive and managed a crash landing of sorts, but the impact still churned the stomach. The squealing noise as metal plates and rivets twisted then broke free from one another made it sound like the plane itself was screaming in protest as it was thrown down the runway. When it finally came to a halt, there had been a second’s calm before the Komet abruptly ignited and the pilot’s fate was sealed.
What could not be denied, however, was the Komet’s prowess in the air before its sudden, untimely demise. In free flight, the plane screeched unstoppably across the sky at twice the speed of a normal fighter. In that regard, it really was the future.
Galland had come to the not unreasonable conclusion that, if this Professor Gaerte was half as good as his reputation, he might just be able to work out a way to land the Komet safely. If he could accomplish that, it followed logically, then perhaps Germany could still win this war after all. Aerial domination was the key to the conflict. With a few squadrons of Komets, surely even Goering could not mess up.
Galland did not know it, but someone else shared his view: a German officer who did not enjoy the consoling notion of a Luftwaffe miracle weapon. Shegel wasted no time that day. Just like Galland, he slipped away unnoticed, for he had an important message to convey. The Komet, cured of its teething problems, could keep Germany in a war it was patently losing. Air superiority could leave its armies safely embedded in France for years. Shegel knew there were other wonder weapons in development and they, in turn, would buy more precious time for their deranged Führer. The longer he remained in control, the more likely it was that Shegel’s beloved nation would be dragged down into the abyss.
The imminent arrival of Professor Gaerte, to replace the naive young fools Goering had once favored, was a startling development. If Gaerte succeeded in turning the Komet into a viable fighting machine, then Hitler’s promise of a thousand-year Reich might come true after all, and the nation would be lost forever. Shegel had seen the Komet with his own eyes, could easily imagine its effect against conventional enemy fighters. It would be like pitching a squadron of Spitfires into the Battle of Waterloo. So Gaerte must not be allowed to succeed. Shegel was determined to stop him, even if it meant treason. Even if it meant death.
As both a Christian and a Prussian aristocrat, it outraged Shegel’s sensibilities to see the historic, God-fearing German nation being systematically destroyed by an unhinged, atheistic little corporal. Slowly, over time, Shegel had become convinced there was only one way to save his country: by ridding Germany of Hitler and all his gangster friends, once and for all. A conditional peace could then be negotiated with the Allies from a position of strength before the whole country was reduced to rubble.
There had always been dissenting voices among the officer class, but they were few in number and lacked influence while Hitler’s military campaigns were successful. But the tide of war had slowly turned and, following the disaster of Stalingrad, it had been easier to find those with a similar view—that for Germany, the war was unwinnable. Some very senior men indeed now agreed; the mad little corporal had to be stopped. A secret line of communication had already been opened with London through neutral Switzerland. The Allies had yet to promise them anything, but neither had they rebuffed the plotters. They would welcome the coup when it came, Shegel was sure of it, but a gesture was needed in the meantime, something that would underline the importance of their group, proving them a force to be respected and reckoned with.
Shegel would give them the Komet.
Emma flinched when the first shots were fired, but Walsh showed no reaction. He was used to being shot at and instinctively knew the gunfire was some way from them, aimed at a less fortunate fugitive.
“Looks like they have found your young friend.”
“Better they chase him than us.” Emma was determined to show no sentiment in front of Harry Walsh.
Walsh snorted. “He’ll identify us both. I should have killed him. If they do catch him, he’ll wish I had.” He pressed ahead.
They were striding across the damp fields, keeping to the low ground so their silhouettes wouldn’t break the horizon and mark them out to pursuers. Emma, breathless but managing to keep up with Walsh, was belatedly grateful for the hours of physical training she had endured. The land around them seemed empty, but they remained on high alert. When they spoke to each other, their words came out quickly in a half-whisper.
“Harry, what about the plane?”
“I know the pilot, traveled with him before. Got him to bring the flight forward a day. Alan didn’t want to fall into a trap.”
“So where is it?”
“He used an old landing zone a couple of miles from here. I hitched a ride. We flew in last night, covered the Lysander, and laid low. All I had to do was trek back to the original landing zone, stake out the approach road, and hope you’d come by before the Germans. I assumed you’d be early.”
“But how could you know?” Emma was irritated that he had predicted her actions so effortlessly.
Walsh seemed amused at her concern. “I didn’t, but you’re a cautious one. It was a fair assumption you’d check out the area before the plane came—and you did.”
“And if I’d forgotten how to be cautious, I’d be as good as dead right now?”
Walsh frowned. “You could say that about any of us, Emma.”
“If you hadn’t dropped in to save the day, I’d be sitting in a cell waiting for the Gestapo. Is that it?”
“Probably. You have good instincts, but the odds were always stacked against you on this one.”
“But Étienne was vouched for,” she protested.
“I know. When we trace that one back, somebody will have to account for it. There’s a traitor, Emma, at least one. Until we find out who it is, nobody in the network is safe.”
“And the real Étienne Dufoy?”
“Most certainly dead.”
“Jesus.”
Walsh grunted, “Had absolutely nothing to do with it.”
“Keep your atheism to yourself, Harry Walsh. At least until we are safely back in England.”
It was as if Emma had inadvertently cursed them with her thoughts of home. As soon as she uttered the words, the calm of the night was shattered once more. This time, it was the sound of tracker dogs barking in the middle distance.
“Damn it. Come on, Emma. Run!”
The Lysander was as ideal for this kind of work as it was unsuited to conventional warfare. Nicknamed the Flying Carrot, the little plane was achingly slow. With a top speed a fraction above two hundred miles per hour, it was no match for enemy fighters. However, this high-winged, two-seater monoplane was an indispensable tool for the SOE because it could take off and land on a five-pound note. The Lysander needed just two hundred yards, sometimes less, to get into the air, turning the smallest field into an impromptu landing strip.
Flight Lieutenant Alan Collins waited nervously by the plane as silhouettes formed on the horizon. It had to be Walsh and the girl, and they were running. Collins cursed, for he had not yet dared to remove the camouflage from the Lysander, and it would surely delay their escape. He began to pull the netting free, struggling as it caught on the tail and propellers. He looked back at Walsh, still some way off but waving at him frantically now. Walsh wanted him to start the engine, which meant the Germans must be close. A wave of panic swept over him. It would surely be impossible to get the camouflage netting clear, the engine running, and takeoff completed in time.
The net refused to budge. Collins thrust a hand deep into his pocket, grasping frantically for the knife. He began to slash at the netting in a desperate attempt to free it.
Walsh was running hard now, and Emma started to fall behind. Inwardly, she cursed her lack of speed as Walsh pulled ahead of her.
The dogs had their scent. German voices could clearly be heard as their pursuers closed in. It’s going to be close, thought Walsh, very close. He turned back and reached behind him, grabbing Emma’s arm and pulling her along by her sleeve in a stumbling run. What the hell was Collins playing at? Why didn’t he start the damned plane? Had he not seen the frantic wave? Tell me he’s not asleep, thought Walsh, his anguish increasing with every stride.
Shouting to the pilot was a risk, but so was waiting till they reached the plane before revving the engine into life. Walsh could pick out individual German voices as they called to each other in the trees, like huntsmen closing in on a fox. It sounded like half a battalion was out there looking for them. There was no choice; he had to risk it.
“Alan! Start her up, man. Now! They’re right behind us!”
There was an immediate cacophony from the hunters, but no response from the pilot. The Germans heard Walsh’s cry and knew they were close.
Unbeknownst to Walsh, Collins was wrestling with the last remaining scrap of netting, which was snagged by a tight thread around the propeller. The flight lieutenant normally subscribed to the adage that more haste led to less speed, but now, in his panic, he began to hack the net free with the lock knife. Sweat formed on his brow, for he, too, had heard the dogs.
“What’s wrong? Where is he?” asked Emma, desperate now.
“Keep going,” was all Walsh said in reply. It was all he could offer, for he had no idea himself what had gone wrong. There wasn’t even the prospect of an alternative plan. How far could they realistically get in this countryside with dogs snapping at their heels . . .
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