Cold Harbour (5 page)

He laughed hugely. Craig turned away, disliking him even more and said to Hare, “I’ve been thinking. You said Section D of SOE was running this thing. Isn’t that the good old dirty tricks department?”

“That’s right.”

“Would Dougal Munro still be in charge there?”

“You know him, too!”

“Oh, yes,” Craig said. “I worked for SOE from the beginning. Before we came into the war. We’ve had dealings, me and Dougal. A ruthless old bastard.”

“Which is how you win wars, old boy,” Edge commented from the rear.

“I see. You’re an anything goes man, are you?” Craig asked.

“Thought we all were in our business, old son.”

For a moment, Craig saw General Dietrich’s frightened face through the confessional grille. He turned away, uncomfortable.

Hare said, “He hasn’t changed—Munro. The motto really is anything goes, but I expect you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

He turned in through cross gates and braked to a halt in a flagged courtyard. The house was grey stone, and three storeys high. Very old, very peaceful. Nothing to do with war at all.

“Does it have a name?” Craig asked.

“Grancester Abbey. Rather grand, eh?” Edge told him.

Hare said, “Here we are then.” He got out of the jeep. “We’ll beard the ogre in his den if he’s here.”

BUT AT THAT
precise moment, Brigadier Dougal Munro was being admitted into the library at Hayes Lodge in London, the house which General Dwight D. Eisenhower was using as temporary headquarters. The General was enjoying coffee and toast and an early edition of
The Times
when the young Army Captain ushered Dougal Munro in and closed the door behind him.

“Morning, Brigadier. Coffee, tea—anything you want is on the sideboard.” Munro helped himself to tea. “How’s this Cold Harbour project working out?”

“So far, so good, General.”

“You know war is a little like the magician who fools people into watching his right hand while his left is attending to the real business of the day.” Eisenhower poured more coffee. “Deception, Major. Deception is the name of the game. I had a report from Intelligence which tells me that Rommel has done incredible things since they put him in charge of the Atlantic Wall.”

“Quite true, sir.”

“This E-boat of yours has taken engineer officers in by night to the French coast to get beach samples on so many occasions that you must have a pretty good idea where we intend to go in?”

“That’s right, General,” Munro said calmly. “All the indications would seem to predict Normandy.”

“All right. So we’re back with deception,” Eisenhower said and walked to the wall map. “I’ve got Patton heading a phantom army up here in East Anglia. Fake army camps, fake planes—the works.”

“Which would indicate to the Germans our intentions to take the short route and invade in the Pas de Calais area?” Munro observed.

“Which they’ve always expected because it makes military sense.” Eisenhower nodded. “We’ve already got things moving to reinforce that idea. The RAF and 8th Air Force will raid that area frequently, considerably closer to the invasion, of course. That’ll make it look as if we’re trying to soften things up. Resistance groups in the region will constantly attack the power cables and railways, that sort of thing. Naturally, the double agents we’re running will transmit the right, false information to Abwehr headquarters.”

He stood there, staring at the map and Munro said, “Something worrying you, sir?”

Eisenhower moved to the bow window and lit a cigarette. “Many people wanted us to invade last year. Let me now be explicit with you, Brigadier, as to why we didn’t. SHAEF has always been convinced that we can only succeed with this invasion by having every advantage. More men than the Germans, more tanks, more planes—everything. You want to know why? Because in every engagement fought in this war on equal terms, facing either Russian, British or American troops, the Germans have always won. Unit for unit, they usually inflict fifty per cent more casualties.”

“I’m aware of that unfortunate fact, sir.”

“Intelligence sent me details of a speech Rommel made to his Generals the other day. He said if he didn’t beat us on the beaches they’d lost the war.”

“I think he’s right, sir.”

Eisenhower turned. “Brigadier, I’ve always been sceptical of the exact worth of secret agents in this war. Their
material is usually sketchy at the best. I think we get better information from the decoding of cyphers by Ultra.”

“I agree, sir,” Munro hesitated. “Of course, if major information isn’t processed by Enigma in the first place, the facts aren’t there to be decoded and they could well be the most important facts.”

“Exactly.” Eisenhower leaned forward. “You sent me a report last week I hardly dare to believe. You said that there was to be a Staff Conference headed by Rommel himself quite soon now. A conference concerned solely with the question of Atlantic Wall defences.”

“That’s right, General. At a place called Château de Voincourt in Brittany.”

“You further stated that you had an agent who could penetrate that conference?”

“Correct, General.” Munro nodded.

Eisenhower said, “My God, if I was a fly on the wall at that meeting. To know Rommel’s thoughts. His intentions.” He put a hand on Munro’s shoulder. “You realise how crucially important this could be? Three million men, thousands of ships, but the right information could make all the difference. You understand?”

“Perfectly, General.”

“Don’t let me down, Brigadier.”

He turned and stared up at the map. Munro let himself out of the room quietly, went downstairs, picked up his coat and hat, nodded to the sentries and went to his car. His aide, Captain Jack Carter, sat in the rear, hands folded over his walking stick. Carter had a false leg, courtesy of Dunkirk.

“Everything all right, sir?” he asked as they drove away.

Munro pulled the glass panel across, cutting them off from the driver. “The de Voincourt conference has assumed crucial importance. I want you to get in touch with Anne-Marie
Trevaunce. She can go on another false trip to Paris. Arrange a Lysander pick-up. I need to talk with her, face-to-face. Say three days from now.”

“Right, sir.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Message came in concerning Cold Harbour, sir. Seems the OSS had problems yesterday. One of their agents knocked off General Dietrich, the SD chief in Brittany. Due to bad weather, their Lysander pick-up had to be aborted, so they asked us for help.”

“You know I don’t like doing that, Jack.”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, Commander Hare got the message direct, went across to Grosnez and picked up the agent concerned. A Major Osbourne.”

There was a pause and Munro turned in astonishment. “Craig Osbourne?”

“Looks like it, sir.”

“My God, is he still around? His luck must be good. The best man I ever had at SOE.”

“What about Harry Martineau, sir?”

“All right, point taken, and he’s another bloody Yank. Is Osbourne at Cold Harbour now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Stop at the nearest phone. Call the CO at RAF Croydon. Tell him I want a Lysander within the next hour. Priority One. You hold the fort here, Jack, and handle the Anne-Marie Trevaunce affair. I’ll fly down to Cold Harbour and see Craig Osbourne.”

“You think he could be useful, sir?”

“Oh, yes, Jack, I think you could say that,” and Munro turned and looked out of the window, smiling.

CRAIG OSBOURNE SAT
on a chair by the sink in the large old-fashioned bathroom stripped to the waist; Schmidt, still in his Kriegsmarine uniform, the medical kit open on the floor, sat beside him and worked on the arm. Julie Legrande leaned on the doorway, watching. She was in her late thirties and wore slacks and a brown sweater, blonde hair tied back rather severely, a contrast with the calm sweet face.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“So-so.” Schmidt shrugged. “You can’t tell with gunshot wounds. I’ve got some of this new penicillin drug. It’s supposed to work wonders with infection.”

He primed a hypodermic and filled it from a small bottle. Julie said, “Let’s hope so. I’ll get some coffee.”

She left as Schmidt administered the injection. Osbourne winced slightly and Schmidt put a dressing pad in place and bandaged the arm expertly.

“I think you’re going to need a doctor, guv,” he said cheerfully.

“We’ll see,” Craig told him.

He stood up and Schmidt helped him into the clean khaki shirt Julie had provided. He managed to button it for himself and went into the other room as Schmidt repacked his medical kit.

The bedroom was very pleasant, a little shabby now and much in need of decorating. There was a bed, mahogany furniture, and a table and two easy chairs in the bow window. Craig went and looked out. There was a terrace with a balustrade below, beyond that an unkempt garden, beech trees, a small lake in a hollow. It was very peaceful.

Schmidt came out of the bathroom, his medical kit in one hand. “I’ll check you out later. It’s me for the bacon and eggs.” He grinned, a hand on the door knob. “And don’t
bother reminding me I’m Jewish. I was corrupted by the great British breakfast a long time ago.”

As he opened the door, Julie Legrande entered with a tray bearing coffee, toast and marmalade, fresh rolls. Schmidt left and she came and placed the tray on the table at the window. They sat opposite each other.

As she poured coffee she said, “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Craig.”

“Paris seems a long time ago,” he said, taking the coffee cup she handed him.

“A thousand years.”

“I was sorry to hear about Henri,” he went on. “A heart attack, I understand?”

She nodded. “He knew nothing. Died in his sleep and at least he had that last eighteen months in London. We have you to thank for that.”

“Nonsense.” He felt strangely embarrassed.

“The simple truth. Would you like some toast or a roll?”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry. Another cup of coffee would go down just fine, though.”

As she poured, she said, “Without you, we’d never have evaded the Gestapo that night. You were a sick man, Craig. Have you forgotten what those animals did to you? And yet you went back in the truck that night for Henri when others would have left him.” She was suddenly emotional, tears in her eyes. “You gave him a life, Craig, the gift of those last few months in England. I’ll always be in your debt for that.”

He lit a cigarette, stood up and looked out of the window. “I left SOE after that affair. My own people were starting OSS. They needed my kind of experience and to be honest, I’d had enough of Dougal Munro.”

“I’ve been working for him down here for four months,”
she said. “We use it as a jumping-off point, safe house, the usual thing.”

“You get on with Munro, then?”

“A hard man.” She shrugged. “But then it’s a hard war.”

He nodded. “A strange set-up, this place, and even stranger people. The pilot, for example, Edge, swaggering around in his Luftwaffe uniform playing Adolf Galland.”

“Yes, Joe’s quite mad, even on a good day,” she said. “I sometimes think he really imagines he
is
Luftwaffe. He gives the rest of us the willies, but you know Munro—always ready to look the other way if a man is truly excellent at what he does. And Edge’s record is extraordinary.”

“And Hare?”

“Martin?” She smiled and put the cups back on the tray. “Ah, Martin is a different story. I think I’m a little bit in love with Martin.”

The door opened and Edge entered without knocking. “So there we are. All very tête-à-tête.”

He leaned against the wall and put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Julie said wearily, “You really are a rather unpleasant little rat at heart, aren’t you, Joe?”

“Touched a nerve did I, sweetie? Never mind.” He turned to Osbourne. “The boss has just flown in from Croydon.”

“Munro?”

“Must want to see you bad, old boy. He’s waiting in the library now. I’ll show you the way.”

He went out. Osbourne turned and smiled at Julie. “See you later,” he said and followed him.

THE LIBRARY WAS
an imposing room, its walls crammed with books from floor to a ceiling of beautiful Jacobean
plasterwork. A log fire burned on the open stone hearth and comfortable couches and leather club chairs were ranged around it. Munro was standing in front of the fire, cleaning his spectacles carefully as Craig Osbourne entered the room. Edge leaned against the wall by the door. Munro adjusted his spectacles and looked at Osbourne calmly.

“You can wait outside, Joe.”

“Oh, dear, so I’m to miss all the fun, am I?” Edge said, but did as he was told.

“Good to see you, Craig,” Munro said.

“I can’t say it’s mutual,” Craig told him and he moved to one of the chairs and sat down, lighting a cigarette. “We go back too far.”

“Don’t be bitter, dear boy, it doesn’t suit.”

“Yes, well I was always just a blunt instrument to you.”

Munro sat opposite. “Colourfully put, but apt. Now then, what about this arm? I understand Schmidt has had a look at it?”

“He thinks I might need a doctor, just to make sure.”

“No problem. We’ll have that taken care of. This Dietrich business, Craig. Really quite something. You exhibited all your usual flair, if I might say so. It’s going to give Himmler and the SD severe problems.”

“And how many hostages did they shoot in reprisal?”

Munro shrugged. “It’s that kind of war. Not your affair.”

Craig said, “Anne-Marie used the same phrase. The exact same.”

“Ah, yes, I was delighted to hear that she was of assistance to you. She works for me, you know.”

“Then God help her,” Craig said forcefully.

“And you, dear boy. You see, you’re on the strength as of right now.”

Craig leaned forward, tossing his cigarette into the fire.
“Like hell I am. I’m an American officer, a Major in the OSS. You can’t touch me.”

“Oh, yes I can. I operate under the direct authority of General Eisenhower himself. The Cold Harbour project is a joint venture. Hare and four of his men are American citizens. You’ll join me, Craig, for three reasons. First, because you now know too much about the entire Cold Harbour project. Second, because I need you here. There’s a lot happening with the invasion coming up and you can make a very positive contribution.”