Eye of the Needle (31 page)
“Almost certainly not.”
“Well done, well done!”
“Don’t congratulate me,” Bloggs said. “By the time I got here it was all over, bar the tidying up.”
“Who…?”
“The woman.”
“Well, I’m damned. What’s she like?”
Bloggs grinned. “She’s a hero, Percy.”
And Godliman, smiling on his end now too, understood.
H
ITLER STOOD AT THE PANORAMIC WINDOW, LOOKING
out at the mountains. He wore his dove-grey uniform, and he looked tired and depressed. He had called his physician during the night.
Admiral Puttkamer saluted and said good morning.
Hitler turned and peered closely at his aide-de-camp. Those beady eyes never failed to unnerve Puttkamer. “Was Die Nadel picked up?”
“No. There was some trouble at the rendezvous—the English police were chasing smugglers. It appears Die Nadel was not there anyway. He sent a wireless message a few minutes ago.” He offered a sheet of paper.
Hitler took it from him, put on his spectacles, and began to read:
YOUR RENDEZVOUS INSECURE YOU CUNTS I AM WOUNDED AND TRANSMITTING LEFT HANDED FIRST UNITED STATES ARMY GROUP ASSEMBLED EAST ANGLIA UNDER PATTON ORDER OF BATTLE AS FOLLOWS TWENTY ONE INFANTRY DIVISIONS FIVE ARMORED DIVISIONS APPROXIMATELY FIVE THOUSAND AIRCRAFT PLUS REQUISITE TROOPSHIPS IN THE WASH FUSAG WILL ATTACK CALAIS JUNE FIFTEENTH REGARDS TO WILLI
Hitler handed the message back to Puttkamer and sighed. “So it’s Calais, after all.”
“Can we be sure of this man?” the aide asked.
“Absolutely.” Hitler turned and walked across the room to a chair. His movements were stiff and he seemed in pain. “He is a loyal German. I know him. I know his family—”
“But your instinct—”
“
Ach
…I said I would trust this man’s report, and I shall.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Tell Rommel and Rundstedt they can’t have their panzers. And send in that damned doctor.”
Puttkamer saluted again and went out to relay the orders.
W
HEN GERMANY DEFEATED ENGLAND IN THE QUARTER-FINAL
of the 1970 World Cup soccer tournament, grandpa was furious.
He sat in front of the color television set and muttered through his beard at the screen. “Cunning!” he told the assorted experts who were now dissecting the game. “Cunning and stealth! That’s the way to defeat the damned Germans.”
He would not be mollified until his grandchildren arrived. Jo’s white Jaguar drew up on the drive of the modest three-bedroom house, and then Jo himself, prosperous-looking in a suede jacket, along with his wife Ann and their children went in.
Jo said, “Did you watch the football, pop?”
“Terrible, we were rubbish.” Since he’d retired from the Force and had more leisure time he had taken an interest in sports.
“The Germans were better,” Jo said. “They play good football. We can’t win it every time—”
“Don’t talk to me about bloody Germans. Cunning and stealth, that’s the way to beat them.” He addressed the grandson on his lap. “That’s the way we beat them in the war, Davy—we tricked them proper.”
“How did you trick them?” Davy asked.
“Well, see, we made them think—” his voice became low and conspiratorial, and the little boy giggled in anticipation—“we made them think we were going to attack Calais—”
“That’s in France, not Germany—”
Ann shushed him. “Let your grandpa tell his stories.”
“Anyway,” grandpa continued, “we made them think we were going to attack Calais, so they put all their tanks and soldiers there.” He used a cushion to represent France, an ashtray for the Germans, and a penknife for the Allies. “
But
we attacked Normandy, and there was nobody much there but old Rommel and a few popguns—”
“Didn’t they find out about the trick?” David asked.
“They
nearly
did. In fact, there was one spy who
did
find out.”
“What happened to him?”
“We killed him before he could tell.”
“Did you kill him, grandpa?”
“No, your grandma did.”
Grandma came in then, carrying a teapot. “Fred Bloggs, are you frightening the children?”
“Why shouldn’t they know?” he groused. “She’s got a medal, you know. She won’t tell me where she keeps it because she doesn’t like me showing it to visitors.”
She was pouring tea. “It’s all over now and best forgotten.” She handed a cup and saucer to her husband.
He took her arm and held her there. “It’s far from over,” he said, and his voice was suddenly gentle.
They looked at each other for a moment. Her beautiful hair was greying now and she wore it up in a bun. She was heavier than she used to be. But her eyes were still the same: large and amber and remarkably beautiful. Those eyes looked back at him now, and they both were very still, remembering.
Until David jumped off his grandpa’s lap and knocked the cup of tea to the floor and the spell was broken.
My thanks to Malcolm Hulke
for invaluable help,
generously given.
KEN FOLLETT
’s career as a bestselling author has spanned more than two decades and has produced worldwide sales of more than ninety million copies. He lives in England with his wife, Barbara Follett, a British M.P.
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Title page image unavailable for electronic edition.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EYE OF THE NEEDLE
. Copyright © 1978 by Ken Follett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader December 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-157263-0
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