FIVE

Gallagher parked the van at the weighbridge and walked along the Albert Pier, going up the steps to the top section. He paused to light one of his French cigarettes and looked out across the bay. The fog had thinned just a little and Elizabeth Castle, on its island, looked strange and mysterious, like something out of a fairy story. Walter Raleigh had once ruled there as governor. Now Germans with concrete fortifications and gun emplacements up on top.

He looked down into the harbor. As always it was a hive of activity. The Germans used Rhine barges, among other vessels, to carry supplies to the Channel Islands. There were several moored on the far side at the New North Quay. There were a number of craft of various kinds from the 2 Vorpostenbootsflotille and two M40 Klasse minesweepers from the 24th Minesweeper Flotilla. Several cargo vessels, mostly coasters, among them the SS Victor Hugo, were moored against the Albert Pier.

Built in 1920 by Ferguson Brothers in Glasgow for a French firm engaged in the coastal trade, she had definitely seen better days. Her single smokestack was punctured in several places by cannon shell from RAF Beaufighters in an attack on one of the night convoys from Granville two weeks previously. Savary was the master with a crew of ten Frenchmen. The antiaircraft defenses consisted of two machine guns and a Bofors gun, manned by seven German naval ratings commanded by Guido Orsini.

Gallagher could see him now on the bridge, leaning on the rail, and called in English, “Heh, Guido? Is Savary about?”

Guido cupped his hands. “In the cafe.”

The hut farther along the pier which served as a cafe was not busy, four French seamen playing cards at one table, three German sailors at another. Robert Savary, a large, bearded man in a reefer coat and cloth cap, a greasy scarf knotted at his neck, sat on his own at a table next to the window, smoking a cigarette, a bowl of coffee in front of him.

“Robert, how goes it?” Gallagher demanded in French and sat down.

“Unusual to see you down here, Mon General, which means you want something.”

“Ah, you cunning old peasant.” Gallagher passed an envelope under the table. “There, have you got that?”

“What is it?”

“Just put it in your pocket and don’t ask questions. When you get to Granville, there’s a cafe in the walled city called Sophie’s. You know it?”

Savary was already beginning to turn pale. “Yes, of course I do.”

“You know the good Sophie Cresson well and her husband Gerard?”

“I’ve met them.” Savary tried to give him the envelope back under the table.

“Then you’ll know that their business is terrorism carried to as extreme a degree as possible. They not only shoot the Boche, they also like to make an example of collaborators, isn’t that the colorful phrase? So if I were you, I’d be sensible. Take the letter. Needless to say, don’t read it. If you do, you’ll probably never sleep again. Just give it to Sophie with my love. I’m sure she’ll have a message for me, which you’ll let me have as soon as you’re back.”

“Damn you, General,” Savary muttered and put the envelope in his pocket.

“The Devil took care of that long ago. Don’t worry. You’ve nothing to worry about. Guido Orsini’s a good lad.”

“The Count?” Savary shrugged. “Flashy Italian pimp. I hate aristocrats.”

“No Fascist, that one, and he’s probably got less time for Hitler than you have. Have you any decent cigarettes in your bag? I’m going crazy smoking that filthy tobacco they’ve been importing for the official ration lately.”

Savary looked cunning. “Not really. Only a few Gitanes.”

“Only, the man says.” Gallagher groaned aloud. “All right, I’ll take two hundred.”

“And what do I get?”

Gallagher opened the bag Chevalier had given him. “Leg of pork?”

Savary’s jaw dropped. “My God, my tongue’s hanging out already. Give me.”

Gallagher passed it under the table and took the carton of cigarettes in return. “You know my telephone number at the cottage. Ring me as soon as you get back.”

“All right.”

Savary got up and they went outside. Gallagher, unwilling to wait, got a packet of Gitanes out, opened it and lit one. “Jesus, that’s wonderful.”

“I’ll be off then.” Savary made a move to walk toward the gangway of the Victor Hugo.

Gallagher said softly, “Let me down on this one and I’ll kill you, my friend. Understand?”

Savary turned, mouth open in astonishment as Gallagher smiled cheerfully and walked away along the pier.

George Hamilton was a tall, angular man whose old Harris tweed suit looked a size too large. A distinguished physician in his day, at one time professor of pharmacology at the University of London and a consultant of Guy’s Hospital, he had retired to a cottage in Jersey just before the outbreak of war. In 1940, with the Germans expected at any day, many people had left the island, a number of doctors among them, which explained why Hamilton, an M.D. and Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, was working as a general practitioner at the age of seventy.

He pushed a shock of white hair back from his forehead and stood up, looking down at Kelso on the couch. “Not good. He should be in hospital. I really need an x-ray to be sure, but I’d say at least two fractures of the tibia. Possibly three.”

“No hospital,” Kelso said faintly.

Hamilton made a sign to Helen and Gallagher, and they followed him into the kitchen. “If the fractures were compound—in other words, if there was any kind of open wound, bone sticking through, then we wouldn’t have any choice. The possibility of infection, especially after all he’s been through, would be very great. The only way of saving the leg would be a hospital bed and traction.”

“What exactly are you saying, George?” Gallagher asked.

“Well, as you can see, the skin isn’t broken. The fractures are what we term comminuted. It might be possible to set the leg and plaster it.”

“Can you handle that?” Helen demanded.

“I could try, but I need the right conditions. I certainly wouldn’t dream of proceeding without an x-ray.” He hesitated. “There is one possibility.”

“What’s that?” Gallagher asked.

“Pine Trees. It’s a little nursing home in St. Lawrence run by Catholic Sisters of Mercy. Irish and French mostly. They have x-ray facilities there and a decent operating theater. Sister Maria Teresa, who’s in charge, is a good friend. I could give her a ring.”

“Do the Germans use it?” Helen asked.

“Now and then. Usually young women with prenatal problems, which is a polite way of saying they’re in for an abortion. The nuns, as you may imagine, don’t like that one little bit, but there isn’t anything they can do about it.”

“Would he be able to stay there?”

“I doubt it. They’ve very few beds and surely it would be too dangerous. The most we could do is patch him up and bring him back here.”

Gallagher said, “You’re taking a hell of a risk helping us like this, George.”

“I’d say we all are,” Hamilton told him dryly.

“It’s vitally important that Colonel Kelso stay out of the hands of the enemy,” Helen began.

Hamilton shook his head. “I don’t want to know, Helen, so don’t try to tell me, and I don’t want the nuns to be involved either. As far as Sister Maria Teresa is concerned, our friend must be a local man who’s had a suitable accident. It would help if we had an identity card for him, just in case.”

Helen turned on Gallagher. “Can you do anything? You managed a card for that Spanish Communist last year when he escaped from the working party at those tunnels they’ve been constructing in St. Peter.”

Gallagher went to the old eighteenth-century pine desk in the corner of the kitchen, pulled out the front drawer, then reached inside and produced a small box drawer of the kind people had once used to hide valuables. There were several blank identity cards in there, signed and stamped with the Nazi eagle.

“Where on earth did you get those?” Hamilton asked in astonishment.

“An Irishman I know, barman in one of the town hotels, has a German boyfriend, if you follow me. A clerk at the Feldkommandatur. I did him a big favor last year. He gave me these in exchange. I’ll fill in Kelso’s details and we’ll give him a good Jersey name. How about Le Marquand?” He took out pen and ink and sat at the kitchen table. “Henry Ralph Le Marquand. Residence?”

He looked up at Helen. “Home Farm, de Ville Place,” she said.

“Fair enough. I’ll go and get the color of his eyes, hair and so on while you phone Pine Trees.” He paused at the door. “I’ll enter his occupation as fisherman. That way we can say it was a boating accident. And one more thing, George.”

“What’s that?” Hamilton asked as he lifted the phone.

“I’m going with you. We’ll take him up in the van. No arguments. We must all hang together, or all hang separately.” He smiled wryly and went out.

Pine Trees was an ugly house, obviously late Victorian in origin. At some time, the walls had been faced in cement which had cracked in many places, here and there, large pieces having flaked away altogether. Gallagher drove the van into the front courtyard, Hamilton sitting beside him. As they got out, the front door opened and Sister Maria Teresa came down the sloping concrete ramp to meet them. She wore a simple black habit, a small woman with calm eyes and not a wrinkle to be seen on her face though she was in her sixties.

“Dr. Hamilton.” Her English was good, but with a pronounced French accent.

“This is General Gallagher. He manages de Ville Place where the patient is employed.”

“We’ll need a trolley,” Gallagher said.

“There’s one just inside the door.”

He got it and brought it to the back of the van. He opened the doors, revealing Kelso lying on an old mattress, and they eased him out onto the trolley.

Sister Maria Teresa led the way inside, and as he pushed the trolley up the ramp, Gallagher whispered to Kelso, “Don’t forget, keep your trap shut, and if you have to moan in pain, try not to sound American.”

Hamilton stood in the operating theater examining the x-ray plates which young Sister Bernadette had brought in. “Three fractures,” Sister Maria Teresa said. “Not good. He should be in hospital, Doctor, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

“All right, Sister. I’ll tell you the truth,” Hamilton said. “If he goes down to St. Helier they’ll want to know how it happened. Our German friends insist on it. You know what sticklers for detail they are. Le Marquand was fishing illegally when the accident took place.”

Gallagher cut in smoothly, “Which could earn him three months in jail.”

“I see.” She shook her head. “I wish I had a bed to offer, but we’re quite full.”

“Any Germans about?”

“Two of their girlfriends,” she said calmly. “The usual thing. One of the army doctors handled that yesterday. Major Speer. Do you know him?”

“I’ve worked with him on occasion at the hospital,” Hamilton said. “I’ve known worse. Anyway, Sister, if you’d care to assist me, you and Sister Bernadette, we’ll get started.”

She eased him into a robe and he went to scrub up at the sink in the corner. As Sister Bernadette helped him on with rubber gloves, he said to Maria Teresa, “A short-term anesthetic only. Chloroform on the pad will do.” He moved to the operating table and looked down at Kelso. “All right?”

Kelso, gritting his teeth, nodded and Hamilton said to Gallagher. “You’d better wait outside.”

Gallagher turned to leave, and at that moment, the door opened and a German officer walked in.

“Ah, there you are, Sister,” he said in French, then smiled and changed to English. “Professor Hamilton, you here?”

“Major Speer,” Hamilton said, gloved hands raised.

“I’ve just looked in on my patients, Sister. Both are doing well.”

Speer was a tall, handsome man with a good-humored, rather fleshy face. His greatcoat hung open, and Gallagher noticed an Iron Cross First Class on the left breast and the ribbon for the Russian Winter War. A man who had seen action.

“Anything interesting, Doctor?”

“Fractures of the tibia. An employee of General Gallagher here. Have you met?”

“No, but I’ve heard of you many times, General.” Spoor clicked his heels and saluted. “A pleasure.” He moved to the x-rays and examined them. “Not good. Not good at all. Comminuted fracture of the tibia in three places.”

“I know hospitalization and traction should be the norm,” Hamilton said. “But a bed isn’t available.”

“Oh, I should think it perfectly acceptable to set the bones and then plaster.” Speer smiled with great charm and took off his greatcoat. “But, Herr Professor, this is hardly your field. It would be a pleasure to take care of this small matter for you.”

He was already taking a gown down from a peg on the wall and moved to the sink to scrub up. “If you insist,” Hamilton said calmly. “There’s little doubt this is more your sort of thing than mine.”

A few minutes later, Speer was ready, leaning down to examine the leg. He looked up at Sister Maria Teresa. “Right, Sister, chloroform now, I think. Not too much and we’ll work very quickly.”

From the corner, Gallagher watched, fascinated.

Savary wasn’t feeling too pleased with life as he walked along the cobbled streets of the walled city in Granville.

For one thing, the trip from Jersey In the fog had been lousy, and he was distinctly unhappy at the situation Gallagher had placed him in. He turned into a quiet square. Sophie’s Bar was on the far side, a chink of light showing here and there through the shutters. He walked across, slowly and reluctantly, and went in.

Gerard Cresson sat in his wheelchair playing the piano, a small man with the white intense face of the invalid, black hair hanging almost to his shoulders. He’d broken his back in an accident on the docks two years before the war. “Would never walk again, not even with crutches.”

There were a dozen or so customers scattered around the bar, some of them seamen whom Savary knew. Sophie sat on a high stool behind the marble counter, bottles ranged behind her against an ornate mirror, and read the local newspaper. She was in her late thirties, dark hair piled high on her head, black eyes, the face sallow like a gypsy’s, the mouth wide and painted bright red. She had good breasts, the best Savary had ever seen. Not that it would have done any good. With a knife or a bottle she was dynamite, and there were men in Granville with scars to prove it.

“Ah, Robert, it’s been a long time. How goes it?”

“It could be worse, it could be better.” As she poured him a cognac, he slipped the letter across. “What’s this?” she demanded.

“Your friend Gallagher in Jersey uses me as a postman now. I don’t know what’s in it and I don’t want to, but he expects an answer when I return. We sail tomorrow at noon. I’ll be back.” He swallowed his cognac and left.

She came round the counter and called to one of the customers, “Heh, Marcel, look after the bar for me.”

She approached her husband who had stopped playing and was lighting a cigarette. “What was that all about?”

“Let’s go in the back and find out.”

She pulled his wheelchair from the piano, turned and pushed him along the bar to the sitting room at the rear. Gerard Cresson sat at the table and read Gallagher’s letter, then pushed it across to her, face grave.

She read it quickly, then got a bottle of red wine and filled two glasses. “He’s in a real mess this time, our friend the General.”

“And then some.”

Between them they had controlled the Resistance movement from Granville to Avranches and St. Malo for three years now. Gerard provided the organizing ability and Sophie was his good right arm. They were a very successful team. Had to be to have survived so long.

“You’ll radio London?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think?” she said. “Maybe they’ll ask us to try to get this Yank out of Jersey.”

“Difficult at the best of times,” he said. “Not possible with the state he’s in.” He held out his glass for more wine. “Of course, there is a rather obvious solution. Much better for everyone in the circumstances, I should have thought.”

“And what’s that?”

“Send someone across to cut his throat.”

There was silence between them. She said, “It’s been a long war.”

“Too long,” he said. “Now take me to the storeroom and I’ll radio London.”

Major Speer turned from the sink, toweling his hands. Sister Bernadette was already mixing the plaster of Paris, and he crossed to the operating table and looked down at Kelso who was still unconscious.

“An excellent piece of work,” George Hamilton said.

“Yes, I must say I’m rather pleased with it myself.” Speer reached for his greatcoat. “I’m sure you can handle the rest. I’m already late for dinner at the officers’ club. Don’t forget to let me know how he progresses, Herr Professor. General.” He saluted and went out.

Hamilton stood, looked down at Kelso, suddenly drained as he stripped off his gloves and gown. Kelso moaned a little as he started to come round and said softly, “Janet, I love you.”

The American accent was unmistakable. Sister Bernadette appeared not to have noticed, but the older woman glanced sharply at Hamilton and then at Gallagher.

“He seems to be coming around,” Hamilton said lamely.

“So it would appear,” she said. “Why don’t you and General Gallagher go to my office. One of the nuns will get you some coffee. We have some of the real stuff thanks to Major Speer. Sister Bernadette and I will put the cast on for you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Sister.”

The two men went out and along the corridor, past the kitchen where two nuns worked, to the office at the end. Hamilton sat behind the desk and Gallagher gave him one of his Gitanes and sat in the window seat.

“The moment he came through that door will stay with me forever,” the Irishman said.

“As I told you, he’s not a bad sort,” Hamilton commented. “And a damn fine doctor.”

“You think Kelso will be all right?”

“I don’t see why not. We should be able to move him in an hour or so. We’ll have to watch him closely for the next few days. The possibility of infection mustn’t be discounted, but there were some ampules of this new wonder drug, penicillin, in that emergency kit from his life raft. I’ll start him on that if he gets the wrong sort of reaction.”

“Sister Maria Teresa—she knows things aren’t what they seem.”

“Yes, I feel rather bad about that,” George Hamilton said. “As if I’ve used her. She won’t tell, of course. It would be contrary to every belief she holds dear.”

“She reminds me of my old aunt in Dublin when I was a lad,” Gallagher said. “Incense, candles and the Holy Water.”

“Do you still believe, Sean?” Hamilton asked.

“Not since the first of July, nineteen sixteen, on the Somme,” Gallagher said. “I was attached to a Yorkshire Regiment, the Leeds Pals. The idiots at headquarters sent those lads over the top, packs on their backs, into heavy machine-gun fire. By noon, there were around forty or so survivors out of eight hundred. I decided then that if God existed, he was having a bad joke at my expense.”

“I take your point,” Hamilton said gravely.

Gallagher stood up. “I think I’ll sample the night air for a while,” and he opened the door and went out.

George Hamilton rested his head on his arms on the desk and yawned. It had been a long day. He closed his eyes and was asleep within a couple of minutes.

It was just after ten and Dougal Munro was still working away at his desk in his office at Baker Street when the door opened and Jack Carter limped in, his face grim. He placed a signal flimsy on the brigadier’s desk. “Brace yourself, sir.”

“What is this?” Munro demanded.

“Message just in from our Resistance contact in Granville. That’s in Normandy.”

“I know where it is, for God’s sake.” Munro started to read and suddenly sat up straight. “I don’t believe it.”

Munro read the signal through again. “It couldn’t be worse. There isn’t a resistance movement in Jersey. No one to call on. I mean, this de Ville woman and the Gallagher man, how long can they manage, especially if he’s ill? And how long can he get by on a small island like that? It doesn’t bear thinking of, Jack.”

For the first time since Carter had known him he sounded close to despair, uncertain which way to go. “You’ll think of something, sir, you always do,” Carter said gently.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Munro stood up and reached for his coat. “Now you’d better phone through to Hayes Lodge and get me an immediate appointment with General Eisenhower. Tell them I’m on my way.”

Helen de Ville had been waiting anxiously for the sound of the van returning, and when it drove into the courtyard, at the side of de Ville Place, she ran out. As Gallagher and Hamilton got out of the van, she cried, “Is he all right?”

“Still doped up, but the leg’s doing fine,” Gallagher told her.

“There’s no one in at the moment. They’re either in Granville or at sea or at the officers’ club, so let’s get him upstairs.”

Gallagher and Hamilton got Kelso out of the van, joined hands and lifted him between them. They followed Helen through the front door, across the wide paneled hall and up the great staircase. She opened the door of the master bedroom and led the way in. The furniture was seventeenth-century Breton, including the four-poster bed. There was a bathroom through a door on the right side of the bed, on the left, carved library shelving from wall to ceiling crammed with books. Her fingers found a hidden spring and a section swung back to disclose a stairway. She led the way up and Gallagher and Hamilton followed with some difficulty, but finally made it to a room under the roof. The walls were paneled in oak, and there was a single window in the gable end. It was comfortable enough with carpet on the floor and a single bed.

They got Kelso onto the bed and Helen said, “There’s everything you need, and the only entrance is from my room, so you should be quite safe. An ancestor of mine hid here from Cromwell’s people for years. I’m afraid the convenience hasn’t improved since his day. It’s that oak commode over there.”

“Thanks, but all I want to do is sleep,” Kelso said, his face tired and strained.

She nodded to Gallagher and the old doctor and they went out and downstairs. Hamilton said, “I’ll get off myself. Tell Helen I’ll look in tomorrow.”

Sean Gallagher took his hand for a moment. “George, you’re quite a man.”

“All in a doctor’s day, Sean.” Hamilton smiled. “See you tomorrow.” And he went out.

Gallagher went through the hall and along the rear passage to the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove, and was pushing a few pieces of wood in among the dying embers when Helen came in.

“Is he all right?” he asked.

“Fast asleep already.” She sat on the edge of the table. “Now what do we do?”

“Nothing we can do until Savary gets back from Granville with some sort of message.”

“And what if there isn’t any message?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something. Now sit down and have a nice cup of tea.”

She shook her head. “We’ve got a choice of either bramble or beet tea and, tonight, I just can’t face either.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Gallagher produced the packet of China tea which Chevalier had given him that morning at the market.

She started to laugh helplessly and put her arms around his neck. “Sean Gallagher, what would I do without you?”

Eisenhower was in full uniform for he’d been attending a dinner party with the prime minister when he’d received Munro’s message. He paced up and down the library at Hayes Lodge, extremely agitated. “Is there no way we can put someone in?”

“If you mean a commando unit, I don’t think so, sir. The most heavily defended coast in Europe.”

Eisenhower nodded. “What you’re really saying is that it’s impossible to get him out.”

“No, sir, but very, very difficult. It’s a small island, General. It’s not like hiding someone on the back of a truck and driving three hundred miles overnight to the Pyrenees or arranging for one of our Lysanders to fly in to pick him up.”

“Right, then get him across to France where you can fix those things.”

“Our information is that he’s not capable of traveling.”

“For God’s sake, Munro, everything could hang on this. The whole invasion. Months of planning.”

Munro cleared his throat and nervously for him. “If worse came to worst, General, would you be willing to consider Colonel Kelso as expendable?”

Eisenhower stopped pacing. “You mean have him executed?”

“Something like that.”

“God help me, but if there’s nothing else for it, then so be it.” Eisenhower walked up to the huge wall map of western Europe. “Six thousand ships, thousands of planes, two million men and the war in balance. If they find out our exact points of landing, they’ll mass everything they’ve got.” He turned. “Intelligence reported a Rommel speech of a few weeks ago in which he said just that. That the war would be won or lost on those beaches.”

“I know, General.”

“And you ask is Kelso expendable?” Eisenhower sighed heavily. “If you can save him, do. If you can’t

” He shrugged. “In any case, considering what you’ve already said about the Jersey situation, how would you go about getting an agent in? I should think a new face would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“That’s true, General. We’ll have to think about it.”

Jack Carter, standing respectfully quiet by the fire, coughed. “There is one way, General.”

“What’s that, Captain?” Eisenhower inquired.

“The best place to hide a tree is in a wood. It seems to me the people who are most free to come and go are the Germans themselves. I mean, new personnel must be posted there all the time.”

Eisenhower turned sharply to Munro. “He’s got a point. Have you got any people capable of that kind of work?”

Munro nodded. “Here and there, sir. It’s a rare skill. Not just a question of speaking fluent German, but thinking like a German and that isn’t easy.”

Eisenhower said, ‘I’ll give you a week, Brigadier. One week and I expect you to have this matter resolved.”

“My word on it, sir.”

Munro walked out briskly, Carter limping along behind. “Radio Cresson in Granville to relay a message to Gallagher in Jersey saying someone will be with him by Thursday.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Of course I am,” Munro said cheerfully. “That was a masterly suggestion of yours in there, Jack. Best place to hide a tree is in a wood. I like that.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“German personnel moving in and out all the time. What would one new arrival be among many, especially if provided with the right kind of credentials?”

“It would take a very special man, sir.”

“Come off it, Jack,” Munro said as they reached the street and the car. “There’s only one man for this job. You know it and I know it. Only one man capable of playing a Nazi to the hilt and ruthless enough to put a bullet between Kelso’s eyes if necessary. Harry Martineau.”

“I must remind you, sir, that Colonel Martineau was given a definite promise after that business in Lyons that his services wouldn’t be required again. His health alone should make it impossible.”

“Nonsense, Jack. Harry could never resist a challenge. Find him. And another thing, Jack. Check SOE flies. See if we’ve got anyone with a Jersey background.”

“Men only, sir?”

“Good God, Jack, of course not. Since when have we been interested in men only in our business.”

He tapped on the partition and the driver took them away from the curb.