Ungentlemanly Warfare E-Book

Howard Linskey

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 449

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A soldier and a spy, an officer but not quite a gentleman... Captain Harry Walsh is SOE's secret weapon. Loathed by his own commanding officer, haunted by the death of his closest friend and trapped in a loveless marriage, Harry Walsh is close to burn out when he is ordered to assassinate the man behind the ME 163 Komet, Hitler's miracle jet fighter. If Walsh fails, there is no prospect of allied victory in Europe. Harry Walsh is ruthless, unorthodox and ungentlemanly. He is about to wreak havoc. 'A heart-pounding thriller from cover to cover. I couldn't put it down'James D. Shipman

Leseprobe

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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR HOWARD LINSKEY

‘Linskey delivers a flawless feel for time and place, snappy down to earth dialect mixed in with unrelenting violence and pace. A Tyneside Dashiell Hammett to put Martina Cole firmly in her place’ – Times

‘Vicious, violent and unashamedly amoral’ – Daily Mail

‘Taut. Tough. Terrifying. The Damage is a deeply atmospheric, in-your-face tale of immorality, seediness, violence, and murder, scintillating with menace from start to finish’– New York Journal of Books

‘Linskey has delivered a superior historical thriller... He is already a rising star of British crime fiction. Hunting the Hangman will do his reputation no harm whatsoever’ – Crime Fiction Lover

‘One of the single most dramatic events of the Second World War, Linskey makes the mission of Jan Kubis and Joseph Gabcik impossible to put down’ – Northern Echo

‘The Dead is Brit Grit at its finest; sharp, pacey and totally compelling’ – Crime Factory

‘An exhilarating and wild ride through the dark and mean streets of Newcastle’ – Catholic Herald 

‘Fast-paced, hard-boiled tale that zips along’ – Crack

For Erin & Alison

PROLOGUE

‘Now, people rise up and let the storm break loose!’

Joseph Goebbels, 1943

Galland was in the foulest of moods. He should have been with his men, debriefing the day’s sorties, not undertaking this trivial errand for Goering. Galland’s FW 190s had fared well against the RAF that morning but two more pilots had been lost and the supply of good men was far from inexhaustible. What could they learn from the engagement? How could he prevent the deaths of yet more pilots? These were the thoughts that preoccupied Galland as his plane taxied to a halt on the runway at Peeneműnde on a bright and cloudless morning.

The Reichsmarschall would be irritated by his lateness but Galland cared more for the well-being of his men. The General der Jagdflieger had downed 94 enemy pilots in dog fights over three countries; first Poland, then England, now France and his principal reward for such gallantry? An order never to fly with his men again. The Fatherland preferred its heroes undamaged. They wished to keep him safe for the newsreels. But what did they expect their fighter ace to do when he was not shaking hands with the Fűhrer for the benefit of the cinematograph; pace the runway like a mother hen, waiting for his charges to return each day? It didn’t bear thinking about. So Galland repeatedly disobeyed this order, not lightly but knowingly and with no lasting regret.

Galland wore his Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves for the demonstration. The ludicrous Goering would expect it. As he walked from the plane he wondered what unflyable new contraption the head of the Luftwaffe had become fixated upon this time.

The group was assembled in a glass-fronted observation room at the far end of a runway. As soon as Galland entered, he picked out the unmistakeable figure of Goering, surrounded by a band of fawning acolytes. Today the Reichsmarschall’s imposing bulk had been squeezed into an expensively tailored bright, white uniform, his large belly straining against its buttons like a badly stuffed cushion. To Galland, he looked like the ringmaster of a cheap, three-ring circus.

‘You’re late, Galland.’ Goering spoke as if this were a deliberate affront to him personally. Then he waved his diamond-encrusted swagger-stick at the assembled group, ‘We started without you.’

‘My apologies, Reichsmarschall. The RAF detained me longer than anticipated,’ before adding, ‘they were unaware of our appointment.’

He’s like a sulking adolescent, thought Galland, as he caught the eye of a brother officer who shared an unflattering view of Goering. Shegel was still a comparatively young man in such exalted company but he looked a good deal older than the last time the two men clapped eyes on each other. Galland wondered what trials he had undergone since then to cause the lines on his face and the premature greying of his hair. Shegel’s reaction to the unedifying spectacle of Goering’s sulk was confined to the merest flicker as his eyes met Galland’s.

There were Luftwaffe men of senior rank in the room, whom Galland recognised, and some in civilian garb that, ominously, he did not. A number were dressed in white lab coats and stood before machines that clicked and whirred in a seemingly random fashion. Occasionally they made marks in pencil on their clipboards. Men in white coats, thought Galland, perhaps they have finally come to take the lunatic away.

Goering spoke to everyone and no one in particular, ‘Dolfo thinks I don’t know he still flies combat missions, despite my express orders,’ and he arched his eyebrows significantly, ‘and those of the Fűhrer. What are we to make of him, eh? How many is it now?’

Galland’s heart sank. Although he expected word of his insubordination would eventually reach Goering, he’d hoped the fog of war might protect him a little longer and he bridled at Goering’s use of a nickname acquired from fellow officers; comrades he held in high regard. Admit nothing, Galland told himself, stand up to the man, don’t quake like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. He isn’t going to have a ‘hero of the Reich’ taken out and shot. Not today at any rate.

‘The Reichsmarschall knows I would never defy an order, least of all from the Fűhrer, unless the circumstances were critical to my squadron, the base or my country and I was unable to directly communicate with him prior to take-off.’

Goering frowned and seemed intent on continuing their verbal joust but, before it could escalate to dangerous proportions, he was distracted – a high-pitched rushing sound from outside of the building made them all turn towards the window.

‘Here she is!’ cried one of the technicians. Galland stepped forward to witness the demonstration and he was almost too late; such was the speed of the object hurtling towards them. To this master of aerial combat, the little silver vessel was a shocking sight. To begin with, it was far smaller than any aeroplane Galland had ever seen. The tiny craft seemed barely capable of accommodating a man and the space-age object had no propellers. Galland was aware of experimental work on jet propulsion engines; the concept was hardly a new one but the reality always seemed to reside in a far-off, future land. Despite this, the new prototype flew by the watchtower at an impossible speed, making the windows rattle as it screeched by. One of the scientists punched the air exuberantly and there was unrestrained cheering from his colleagues. Galland merely stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Adolf Galland was not prone to incredulity but even he could not contain his wonder.

‘What in heaven’s name was that?’

Goering had never looked more smug or superior, as if he had personally invented a method for turning base metal into gold.

‘That, Galland?’ he enunciated the words slowly for maximum effect, ‘that is the future!’

1

‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep’

Robert Frost

Even in the subdued glow of the moonlight, Emma could see the fear in the Frenchman’s eyes.

‘How much further?’ asked Etienne Dufoy. His hand gripped Emma’s shoulder as he peered at her through thick lens glasses, ‘Are we lost?’

‘Not far now,’ she tried to sound reassuring, ‘we are close to the landing zone. You must be quiet.’

Etienne did not seem entirely happy with the young girl’s answer. Reluctantly he released his grip and turned his head from her. As the owlish eyes became downcast he tried to contain his fear.

‘Don’t worry, Etienne,’ she smiled at him then, ‘this time tomorrow you will be in London, drinking Scotch and complaining about the weather. Just like an Englishman.’

Etienne managed a weak smile in response. They had stopped again on this mud track for what seemed like the hundredth time, listening for a 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. The constant stop-start was beginning to unnerve the resistance leader.

Emma looked at Etienne again. He seemed more like a frightened office clerk than one of the most wanted men in France. Maybe even the fearless Etienne Dufoy could feel fear and who could blame him after an interrogation at the Avenue Foch, the Gestapo HQ in Paris. Etienne 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 22-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 has she been tasked to bring men out, and it probably showed. Is it any wonder Etienne’s nerves are shot through, she thought?

As they moved off, she became acutely aware of how incongruous their little party must have looked. Emma 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 tonight she wore trousers instead of a skirt but Emma could never be described as boyish. A few short months ago, she was on the SOE training program, learning the Morse code, sabotage and silent killing. Now she was leading a boy and a man in his middle forties across a mud track in a foreign land, towards their appointment with a 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 front.

‘Stay alert, Olivier,’ she told him sharply.

‘Of course,’ he replied, his young pride affronted.

The local resistance leader had assured Emma that Olivier was a good man but he was so effusive in his praise she had begun to wonder if the boy was a relative. Emma was nervous, for Etienne 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, ‘so they have power over them. Or mutilate them if they won’t talk,’ and 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 instinct that caused her to halt suddenly in front of the copse directly ahead of them? Her left hand went out to the side, the signal for her companions to halt.

‘What is it?’ whispered Etienne 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. Emma froze, 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. 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, forming into view like an apparition. A tall, well-built man with clear sharp 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 the combat veteran and he had a dangerous air about him. Something about the way he carried himself hinted strongly at the 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 Etienne Dufoy?’ and he held out his hand in greeting.

‘Yes,’ answered Etienne who seemed bemused by this stranger, but the Englishman appeared to know his pretty guide and Etienne 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 Etienne’s hand and yanked the smaller man towards him. Etienne gasped as Walsh wrapped a burly arm around the Frenchman’s neck and forced him down, on to his knees, facing away from Walsh. There was a further strangled gurgle of alarm from Etienne before Walsh put his full weight behind the next move, as his knee went into the older man’s back and he jerked Etienne’s head sharply backwards, 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 Etienne 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 he scrambled frantically in his coat pocket for the ancient Lebel revolver his uncle had given him. The youth brought the gun up and pointed it into Walsh’s face.

‘Do not move,’ he stammered, but the Englishman calmly advanced towards him.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid, boy,’ Walsh commanded in accent-less 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 them; from Harry to Emma, then the prone and lifeless body of the man he was 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 marvelled 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,’ but Walsh was 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,’ and he steered her towards a gap in the trees.

2

‘The agents should die, certainly, but not before torture, indignity and interrogation has drained from them the last shred of evidence that should lead us to others. Then and only then, should the blessed release of death be granted to them.’

SS Reichsfűhrer Heinrich Himmler on the treatment of captured SOE agents.

Galland relished the rare tranquillity 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 Peeneműnde that day but the end result had been the same. Another burned pilot dragged from the wreckage screaming. 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 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; and what a terrible price to pay when the test flight ends in failure. Of course, the scientists will go back to their drawing boards but the pilot will 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 any one 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 reached him the hair had been burned away, along with the eyebrows and lashes, and much of the skin on his face, making him unrecognisable from the fresh-faced, recklessly hopeful youth he’d been moments earlier.

There were operations these days, or so Galland understood, that could make you resemble a man again, after a time. 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 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 to 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 shall 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 and Galland wondered what Goering had in mind for the unfortunate scientists.

‘Get me Gaerte!’ Goering was screaming like a spoilt child, ‘get him here now!!’

While the Reichsmarschall raged, Galland quietly proffered 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 whenever 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 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 as if the plane itself was screaming in protest as it was thrown down the runway. When it finally came to a halt there was a second’s calm, until 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 that 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 her 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 Fűhrer. 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 the eminent Professor Gaerte, to replace the naive young fools Goering once favoured, 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; rid Germany of Hitler and all of 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 amongst the officer class but they were few in number and lacked influence while the military campaigns went well. 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 nor 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, making them a force to be respected and reckoned with.

Shegel would give them the Komet.

Emma flinched as 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,’ and 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 was breathless but managing to keep up with Walsh, belatedly grateful for the hours of PT she had endured in training. The land around them seemed empty but they remained on high alert. When they spoke to each other the words came out quickly in a breathless half-whisper.

‘Harry, what about the plane?’

‘I know the pilot, travelled 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 and 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 he could predict her actions so effortlessly.

Walsh seemed amused at her consternation. ‘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’ve good instinct but the odds were always stacked against you on this one.’

‘But Etienne was vouched for,’ she protested.

‘I know, and 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 networks is safe.’

‘And the real Etienne 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.’

3

‘All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.’

Voltaire

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 200mph it was no match for enemy fighters. However, this two-seater, high-winged 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 a silhouette 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 its 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 take-off 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 Stirling 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. And so, Walsh called.

‘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.

Unbeknown to Walsh, Collins was wrestling with the last remaining scrap of netting, which snagged in a tight thread around one of the propellers. 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, if Collins was not there for them? He made his decision then. Letting go of Emma’s sleeve, he ran, leaving her trailing in his wake. Emma felt a surge of panic. He was actually going to leave her behind. They said he was a ruthless bastard.

Then came the crack of the first German rifle. Walsh could still not make out the Lysander in the darkness but he had to be in the right spot. Surely it couldn’t be far now but what was closest, the plane or the Germans?

Finally, gloriously, there was a roar as the Lysander’s 870-horsepower engine suddenly burst into life ahead of them. Walsh and Emma were sprinting flat out. A lone dog was set off its leash at the sound and it burst free, racing ahead to tackle them. Walsh could hear the Doberman’s bark as it drew nearer. The din of the Lysander increased as Collins brought the plane towards them, its door opened invitingly.

Walsh sprinted towards it, reached the plane first, put a hand on the door to steady it, as the Lysander taxied slowly forward, and shouted back at Emma.

‘Come on!’

Emma Stirling ran the last remaining yards flat out. Walsh bent low and put out a hand. Without breaking stride, she planted her boot right into it. Walsh ignored the dark shape careering towards him across the field. Instead, he hoisted Emma into the air and she pitched into the plane head first, landing heavily. Walsh immediately followed her straight through the door just as the dog finally reached him, leaping to snap at his leg. The dog jumped and missed, close enough for him to feel its presence. Walsh was half in and half out of the plane as the dog jumped again. Instinctively he kicked out, his boot connected with something fleshy and the attack dog was knocked senseless. It let out a high-pitched yelp, as Walsh’s blow sent it arcing away from the plane.

‘Go man!’ but Collins needed no further urging. He was already pushing the throttle even as Walsh clambered inside, slamming the door shut behind them. The Lysander set off along the ground as the advance party of soldiers appeared at the edge of the field. A command was hastily barked and the soldiers levelled rifles, aiming at the onrushing plane as it gathered speed.

Collins had brought the plane to them; the right call or the Doberman would have mauled Walsh in the dirt, but there was surely a good deal less than two hundred yards before the trees now. As the shots rang out, Collins pushed the throttle hard, pulling the plane upwards. Its whole frame seemed to shudder as it rose.

A German bullet clipped a wing, another took out a corner of glass from the cockpit but the volley of hastily aimed fire did not prevent the Lysander from slowly rising.

Walsh knew the plane had to gain height quickly or there would be nothing left of them for the Gestapo to arrest. At least the end would be quick. Emma and Walsh both held their breaths as trees filled the view ahead of them. It was going to be close.

4

‘The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare’

Winston Churchill’s nickname for the Special Operations Executive

Bullets zipped past the wing tips and the engine coughed alarmingly, making the tiny plane fall momentarily then rise again at the last moment as Collins struggled with the controls. All Emma could see ahead of her, through the misted glass of the cockpit, was the dark clump of trees. They were far too close. There was no way they could make it now and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable crash.

But Collins had not given up on the Flying Carrot. He gave the plane one last push and its Bristol Mercury engine drove it miraculously clear of the treetops, while the tips of the uppermost branches scraped against the wheels, like hands trying to drag it down. More shots flew harmlessly by as the Lysander left a field full of frustrated cursing Germans behind it.

Emma let her breath out in relief then put her face down into her palms. ‘I really didn’t think we were going to make it,’ her voice was muffled by her hands.

‘If you want the truth,’ said Walsh, ‘neither did I,’ and he exhaled heavily before calling forward. ‘Well done, Alan.’ Collins simply nodded dumbly. He was in his own little world now, peering nervously at the sky around him for enemy night fighters.

Emma shivered involuntarily. ‘Do you still carry that flask of rum around with you? I don’t know why after all that running but somehow I’m bloody freezing.’

Realising Emma Stirling was probably in the throes of shock, Walsh reached into his inside pocket, produced an ancient and battered silver hip flask, unscrewed the top and handed it to Emma. ‘Calvados,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Rum in England, Calvados in France. In case I should have the misfortune to be stopped by the authorities. Calvados is more authentic and just as effective at keeping out the cold.’

Emma took a large swig to steady her nerves. ‘Is there anything you don’t bloody think of, Harry?’ and she handed back the flask. He took a sip of the apple brandy. ‘Cheers,’ she said, ‘and it’s good to see you again, Captain Harry Walsh, whatever the circumstances.’

The Channel crossing was happily incident-free. It had been a long night and they were all relieved by the lack of enemy contact. Perhaps God really was an Englishman, mused Emma, who’d had more than enough excitement.

‘How did you know that wasn’t Etienne Dufoy, Harry?’

‘Because I met him once,’ he said, ‘I heard you were bringing him out. They told me he’d been arrested by the Gestapo but escaped. I thought it unlikely. Don’t misunderstand me, he was an impressive and brave man in his own way, but I doubted he was capable of making a break from the Secret State Police.’

‘Then why not get a message to me?’

‘There was no time and I wasn’t certain. You might have killed an innocent man. I had to see for myself.’

‘Who was he then?’

‘No idea. Some creature who’d gain from helping the Gestapo; a man who’d bait a trap for his own countrymen and their allies. No great loss in other words. The Germans would have followed you all to the landing zone then waited for the plane to arrive. That way they get the plane and pilot, the boy from the resistance and you. A few hours’ persuasion and you’d have betrayed the whole network. Don’t look at me like that, Emma, everybody cooperates eventually. It’s just a question of time, until you run out of cover stories. You know that.’

‘Yes, you told me at Arisaig, remember?’

‘I remember.’

Walsh decided now was the time to bring her into his confidence.

‘There is just one thing, Emma.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I wasn’t here tonight. London can’t know.’

‘What? Why? I thought Baker Street knew all about this.’

‘No,’ Walsh paused, as if measuring how much of the truth he could afford to tell her, ‘I asked for approval to come but it was denied.’

‘By whom?’

He shrugged, as if to say, who else? ‘Price.’

‘Bastard,’ she said with some feeling.

‘Yes, I’m beginning to think that he is.’

‘But you came anyway?’

‘Evidently.’

‘You disobeyed a direct order.’

‘SOE is not like the regular army,’ said Walsh, ‘I should know. We’re meant to think for ourselves. Besides, Price did not actually say “I order you not to go”.’

‘What did he say?’

Walsh adopted a high, pompous nasal tone as he mimicked his immediate superior, the Deputy Head of ‘F’ Section. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Walsh. The gel will be fine. It would be a damn fool errand and only a complete and utter fool would attempt it.’

Emma laughed. ‘What does that make you then?’

Walsh’s face broke into a smile for the first time. ‘At least three types of fool by all accounts.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Only that flying out to meet you would be “the thin end of the wedge”.’

‘My God, he sounds just like my father.’ Her tone made it clear to Walsh this was not a good thing. She turned away from him then and looked out of the window, ‘Thank you, Harry, you saved my life tonight.’

‘You’d have done the same.’

‘Yes, I would,’ she said it firmly, still not looking at him.

Emma fell silent for a long time. Walsh took another swig from the flask then closed his eyes. The only sound now was the dull purr of the Lysander’s nine-cylinder, air-cooled engine. That, combined with the tots of Calvados, threatened to lull him into a sleep.

‘But, Harry?’ Emma turned back to him.

‘What?’ His eyes still closed.

‘How am I going to tell London I returned without Etienne Dufoy, that we… that I, sorry… killed an impostor and left his body in the woods for the Gestapo to find? Oh yes, and that we have a traitor in the networks.’

Though Walsh kept his eyes firmly closed, Emma could clearly discern the outline of a smile.

‘You’ll think of something.’

‘Thanks, Harry. Thanks a bunch.’

The English coast finally came into view, its chalky cliffs a dull silver hue in the moonlight but Emma could not enjoy the spectacle. She was too preoccupied with her plight. However was she going to explain this one?

Emma knew Walsh was never going to respect the 20mph speed limit imposed by the blackout and they made short work of the journey from RAF Tangmere. At least he had taken the trouble to fit an adapted lamp, which dimmed the motorcycle’s beam, projecting it downwards, as they sped through the darkness of the capital’s empty roads. The Norton growled one last time as Walsh steered towards the kerb then it fell silent. Emma let her arms slide from his waist and she climbed from the motorcycle.

‘How do you get the petrol to keep this old thing running? No, actually, don’t answer that, I probably don’t want to know.’

‘This old thing happens to be a 1933 Norton. A Model 30, 499cc, racing-adapted “International”. In other words, it’s a classic and a bloody quick one.’

‘I shall have to take your word for that,’ she said dismissively, ‘but thanks for the lift.’

‘All part of the service, miss.’ Walsh stayed astride the bike. He seemed reluctant to ride away.

Emma sighed. ‘At least come in for a drink, Harry. It’s so late, one drink won’t make any difference,’ she said before adding, ‘I’m grateful for the ride but bloody freezing again now. Come on, I’ve some real rum in the house.’

Walsh climbed from the bike and followed Emma up the steps of number 34 Devonshire Place, a dwelling she’d chosen primarily for its proximity to SOE headquarters in Baker Street. The building had changed since Walsh last visited Emma Stirling there. Its iron railings had been taken away and melted down for scrap to help the war effort.

‘That friend of yours not in?’ asked Walsh trying to sound unconcerned.

‘Knowing Lucy, she’ll be gadding about somewhere. If she is in bed we’ll just have to be quiet, won’t we? I’d hate to damage your reputation, though why I’m more concerned about yours than mine I’ll never know.’

They dragged two armchairs up to the dying embers of a coal fire and Walsh prodded it back into life with an iron poker. They drank Emma’s rum from enamel cups. It tasted sweet and warmed the backs of their throats.

Suddenly Emma shuddered.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I mean I will be.’

‘You had a bit of a shock tonight,’ he conceded, as if the notion had only just entered his head.

‘I feel better than I thought I would to be honest. Nothing like the realisation you are close to death to make you appreciate life, eh?’

‘True.’

‘How many times have you been over there now, Harry?’

Walsh looked down at his boots as if checking them for mud. ‘I don’t keep count.’

‘Why? Superstitious? When did you first go over – back end of 1940? How have you coped with this life for three years?’

Walsh wished Emma wouldn’t remind him of his diminishing chances of survival. ‘I try not to think about it. I just do the job and come home.’

Walsh gave the coals an absent-minded prod with the poker. They both watched as sparks danced from them. There was a silence while each waited for the other to speak.

‘Do you keep an eye on all of your little protégés these days?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Nothing, I just wondered how often you fly over to help them complete missions.’

He knew where she was going and doubted he could prevent her. ‘Like I said, I knew Dufoy and this one just didn’t ring true.’

‘So tonight had nothing to do with “us”?’

‘Us?’

‘There was an “us”, once. I can carry on pretending there wasn’t if you’d prefer.’

‘Emma, I am married, you know that. You knew that…’

‘And how is Mrs Walsh?’

‘You say that as if you know her?’

‘No, but I know you, and I know what we had, even if it was just a few weeks on a miserable, rain-lashed Scottish estate. It was still something worth remembering. A girl is allowed her memories, isn’t she? Even in the SOE.’

Walsh remained silent.

‘I didn’t imagine it, did I? You had feelings for me then.’

‘Yes, I had feelings for you but what use are feelings when one of us is married.’

‘For just over a year as I remember.’

‘I made a mistake.’

‘Seeing me or marrying her?’

‘Seeing you.’

‘You said that very quickly, Harry.’

Walsh sighed, ‘Would you rather I’d not come out to get you, Emma; is that what you’re telling me?’

‘God no, I hate to think where I’d be right now if you hadn’t. It was a big risk you took tonight; I just want to know if you would have done it for every agent you trained?’

‘I would, yes,’ and he said it emphatically, looking directly into her eyes.

‘Well then, I suppose I’m lucky to know you, Harry Walsh.’ She took a sip of rum before adding, ‘And so is the rest of my intake.’

They drained more of the rum as the room warmed up around them until Emma felt able to go barefoot. She pulled the coarse, woollen men’s socks she was wearing from her feet, slumped low in the old armchair, stretching her legs out in front of her and flexed her toes at the flames. Her hair was unruly now; a combination of the relaxing properties of alcohol and the reclined position she’d adopted. The effect was a positive one. It made her look more attainable somehow, like a woman and less a young girl. ‘Just-fucked hair’ thought Walsh, that’s what Tom Danby would have called it and he instantly told himself to banish such thoughts before they became too appealing.

He drained the last of his rum, ‘I should go.’

Walsh rose and quickly put on his coat. Emma followed.

‘You can stay if you want. Of course you know that,’ she was trying hard to sound casual, ‘and I’m not drunk, well maybe just a little, but that’s not the reason.’

They were at the door now and before he could open it she reached out and took his hand, ‘Harry, you saved my life tonight and I want to wake up next to you in the morning and… I’m not doing a very good job of this am I? Out of practice you see.’

‘No, you’re doing far too good a job, which is why I have to go. If it was just bed it might be different but it’s not and I can’t give you anything more than that.’

She leaned in closer and Harry picked up the familiar sweet smell of her hair, something sharp like lemon juice and fresh like the rain. ‘And what if I settled for just bed?’

5

‘If you are arrested by the Gestapo, do not assume all is lost; the Gestapo’s reputation has been built upon ruthlessness and terrorism, not intelligence. They will always pretend to know more than they do and may even make a good guess, but remember that it is a guess; otherwise they would not be interrogating you.’

SOE training pamphlet

At that exact moment in the local headquarters of the Geheime Staatspolizie in Rouen, Olivier was screaming in agony.

‘That was just one,’ assured his interrogator, ‘imagine how it will feel if I order him to remove them all.’ And Captain Kornatzki nodded at the Gestapo corporal who had just torn Olivier’s fingernail out of its roots as calmly as if he were removing the top from a beer bottle.

‘Please no,’ and the young man’s voice cracked into sobs. ‘I’m trying to help, I’m trying to remember but I don’t know anything.’ His voice carried a slight echo in the damp stonewalled cell.

‘Tell me again about the English girl,’ asked Kornatzki, ‘her name, Olivier, what was her real name?’ The interrogator was annoyed he had not been granted the opportunity of a personal appointment with Emma; the women were always more satisfying to work on than the men. He was beginning to view the whole of that night’s operation as something of a failure.

It had seemed promising enough at the planning stage. A single impostor would trap an entire network. By now Kornatzki should have been on the telephone to the Colonel, happily informing him that a British pilot and his plane had been captured, a female agent was under interrogation and soon he would be in possession of the names and whereabouts of Normandy’s key resistance fighters. But it had all gone very badly wrong. An interfering Englishman had murdered the impostor, a petty career criminal persuaded to replace the late Etienne Dufoy, who had been so scandalously allowed to die in custody before revealing all of his secrets. The promise of an amnesty and a little money had led that insignificant crook to an early unmarked grave and the Wehrmacht’s finest soldiers had failed to follow their targets closely enough. Now all the Gestapo had to show for their efforts was this snivelling boy.

‘I don’t know,’ the boy was sobbing hard now and staring at the bloodied stump that used to be his finger. Kornatzki had experimented with countless forms of torture but you could rarely surpass the visual impact of a torn-out fingernail. ‘We knew her only as Madeleine. Please, I’d tell you if I knew.’

‘I’m starting to believe you, Olivier, I am. You’ve been most cooperative so far but I need names,’ and Kornatzki clasped his hand against the back of the boy’s neck then pulled his face forward so it was less than an inch from his own. He spoke in a low whisper, coaxing the boy to talk, ‘If I get the names you keep your finger nails, it’s very simple. So tell me now about the Englishman.’

‘He came out of the trees.’

‘He came out of the trees,’ sighed Kornatzki, ‘yes, you said that. Like Tarzan perhaps, swinging on a vine?’ and he let go of the boy and retreated. The Gestapo corporal rolled up his shirt sleeves and advanced once more to take his place.

‘No,’ Olivier protested weakly.

‘But I must have his name, Olivier, otherwise I cannot keep you alive, you understand that don’t you, it will be out of my hands. You have to help me if you want me to help you.’

‘I don’t…’ and Olivier began to shake his head in wordless protest at the injustice of it all. All he wanted to do was leave this place, go back to his mother and father in the village, walk across the fields with his girlfriend and never think about war or the resistance again. This was all so unreal somehow; all of it apart from the searing, burning pain in his finger, which was very real indeed.

‘Take another finger nail, Corporal.’

‘Please! His name, yes, I think I can remember. It was Harry!’

‘Harry?’ Kornatzki snorted, ‘is that all you give me? What use is that to me? There must be a hundred thousand Harrys in England. Do it, Corporal.’

‘No! It was Walsh. The girl called him Walsh! Harry Walsh!’

‘Did you say Harry Walsh?’ asked the astonished Major.