"A pleasure to meet you, Herr Major," he said. "YouVe been in Jersey long?"
"Only a couple of months," Necker told him. "I'm not with the 319th Division normally. Only on loan."
They went upstairs, he knocked and opened a door, stood to one side and Martineau went in first. It was a pleasant enough room, obviously originally the office of some official. The officer who stood up and came around the desk to meet him was a type he recognized instantly. A little stiff in manner, rather old-fashioned regular army and very definitely no Nazi. An officer and a gentleman.
"Standartenfuhrer. A pleasure to see you." The hand-shake was 8na, friendly enough, but the eyes said something else. Only surface courtesy here.
"Colonel Heine." Martineau opened his coat and produced his SD card.
Heine examined it and handed it back. "Please sit down. In what way can we serve you? YouVe met Felix Necker, of course. He's only on loan from Paris. Temporarily my second in command. A holiday for him. Just out of hospital. He was on the Russian Front."
"Indeed?" Martineau said. He took out the Himmler letter and passed it across.
Heine read it slowly, his face grave, then passed it to Necker. "If I could know the purpose of your visit?"
"Not at this stage." Martineau took the letter as Necker handed it back to him. "All I need is assurance of total cooperation as and when required."
"That goes without saying," Heine hesitated. "As for billeting arrangements, I understand you are staying at de Ville Place."
"Yes, I spoke to Captain Muller of the GFP on the pier when we arrived. He was most cooperative. He has already supplied me with a suitable vehicle, so for the moment, there is really nothing else I require. It would be useful if you informed all unit commanders of my presence."
"Of course. There is one thing," Heine added. "I have to go to Guernsey and so does the civil affairs commander. A weekend conference with General von Schmettow."
Martineau turned to Necker. "Presumably you will be in command?"
"That is correct."
"Then I can see no problem." He got to his feet and picked up his hat.
Heine said, "I'll see you when I get back then?"
"Possibly." Martineau shook hands. "A pleasure, Herr Colonel. I'll let you get on with it now. Don't bother to see me out, Major."
The door closed behind him. Heine's whole demeanor changed. "My flesh always crawls when these SS security people appear. What in the hell does he want, Felix?"
"God alone knows, Herr Colonel, but his credentials..." Necker shrugged. "Not only signed by Himmler, but by the Fuhrer himself."
"I know." Heine put up a hand defensively. "Just watch him, that's all. I'll see what von Schmettow thinks when I get to Guernsey. But at all costs keep him sweet. Trouble with Himmler is the last thing we need,"
"Of course, Herr Colonel."
"Good. Now show in these good citizens from the Food Control Committee and let's get on with it."
Martineau had time in hand so he walked through the town. There were plenty of people about, more civilians than soldiers. Most people looked underweight, but that was to be expected, and clothes looked old and well-worn. There were few children about, they'd be at school. The ones he did see were in better shape than he had expected, but then, people always did put their children first.
So, people managed. He knew, because Helen de Ville had told them, of the communal kitchens and bakeries to conserve fuel. It occurred to him that people in the town obviously had a more difficult time of it than those in the country. At that moment, as he moved into Queen Street, he saw a crowd overflowing the pavement ahead, all staring into a shop window.
It contained an amazing display of food of every description. Canned goods, sacks of potatoes and flour, hams, bottles of red wine and champagne. People said nothing, just looked. A notice in the window said: Black market goods. The enemy may be your own neighbor. Help defeat him. It was signed by Muller. The pain in the faces of ordinary people deprived too long was unbearable. Martineau turned and went back to Charing Cross.
When he went upstairs to the salon, Sarah was just adjusting her hat 'in the mirror. Her hair looked excellent. He helped her on with her coat.
Emily Johnson said, "Satisfied?"
"Very much so." He opened his wallet and took out a ten-mark note.
"No!" Her anger overflowed. "I don't want your money.
You told me to do her hair and IVe done it." There were tears of frustration in her eyes. "Just go."
Martineau pushed Sarah out of the door. When he turned, his voice, to Emily Johnson's astonishment, was quite gentle. It was as if, for a moment, he had stepped out of the role of brutal SS officer that he had played so well. "I salute you, Mrs. Johnson. You are a brave woman."
The door closed behind him. She sat down, head in hands, and started to cry.
Martineau parked the Kubelwagen outside the Silvertide Hotel at Havre des Pas beside several other cars. "I shan't be long."
She smiled. "Don't worry about me I'll just take a walk along the seawall. I used to come to swim in the pool here when I was a kid."
"As you please. Just try not to talk to any strange men."
Muller had seen him arrive from the window of his office. When Martineau went inside, a young military policeman in plain clothes was waiting to greet him. "Standartenfiihrer Vogel? This way please."
He ushered Martineau into Muller's office and closed the door. The captain stood up behind the desk. "A great pleasure."
"I wish I could say the same," Martineau said. "YouVe spoken to Kleist and Greiser?"
"About this misunderstanding at de Ville Place? Yes, they did explain..."
"Misunderstanding?" Martineau said coldly. "You will have them in here now, Herr Captain, if you please, and quickly. My time is limited."
He turned away and stood at the window, hands behind his back, as Muller asked for Kleist and Greiser over the intercom. They came in only a few moments. Martineau didn't bother to turn around, but looked out across the road to the seawall where Sarah was standing.
He said softly, "Inspector Kleist, I understand you have put this morning's events at de Ville Place down to a misunderstanding?"
"Well, yes, Standartenfuhrer."
"Liar!" Martineau's voice was low and dangerous. "Both of you liars." He turned to face them. "As I walked through the wood with Mademoiselle Latour we heard a girl scream. A child, Captain, barely sixteen, being dragged toward a barn by this animal here while the other stood and laughed. I was about to interfere when General Gallagher came on the scene and gave a bully the thrashing he deserved."
"I see," Muller said.
"Just to make things worse, I was obliged to draw my own pistol and fire a warning shot to prevent this idiot shooting Gallagher in the back. God in heaven, what kind of an imbecile are you, Greiser?" He spoke slowly as if to a child. "The man is Irish, which means he is a neutral, and the Fuhrer's declared policy is good relations with Ireland. On top of that he is a famous man back there in the old country. A hero of their revolution. A general. We don't shoot people like that in the back. Understand?"
"Yes, Standartenfuhrer."
Now he turned his attention to Kleist. "And as the Fuhrer's declared policy toward the inhabitants of Jersey has been one of reconciliation, we do not attempt to rape sixteen-year-old girls." He turned to Muller. "The actions of these men are an affront to every ideal the Reich holds dear and to German honor."
He was thoroughly enjoying himself, especially when Heist's anger overflowed. "I'm not a child to be lectured like this."
"Kleist!" Martineau said. "As a member of the Gestapo you took an oath to our Fuhrer. A holy oath. As 1 recall it runs: 1 vow to you and the superiors you appoint, obedience unto death. Is it not so?"
"Yes," Kleist answered.
"Then remember from now on that you are here to obey orders. If I ask a question you answer, 'Jawohl, Standar-tenfuhrer.' If I give you an order it's 'Zu befehl, Standar-tenfuhrer.' Do you follow?"
There was a pause before Kleist said in a low voice, "Jawohl, Standartewfuhrer."
Martineau turned on Muller. "And you wonder why Reichsfuhrer Himmler thought it worthwhile sending me here?"
He walked out without another word, went through the foyer and crossed the road to the Kubelwagen. Sarah was sitting on the bonnet. "How did it go?" she asked.
"Oh, I think you could say I put the fear of God in them all rather satisfactorily." He opened the door for her. "Now you can take me on a Cook's tour of this island of yours."
Muller started to laugh. "I wish you could see yourself standing there in front of the desk, Willi. All you need is short pants."
"I swear to God I'll..."
"You'll do nothing, Willi, just like the rest of us. You'll just do as you're told." He went to a cupboard, opened it and found a glass and a bottle of cognac. "I must say he sounded just like the Reichsfuhrer on a bad day. All that German purity nonsense. All those platitudes."
"Do you still want me to speak to my brother, Herr Captain?" Greiser asked. "IVe got a call booked through to Stuttgart for ten o'clock tonight."
"Why not?" Muller poured some cognac into his glass and said impatiently, "For God's sake, go down to the hospital and get that nose seen to, Willi. Go on, get out of my sight, both of you."
Rommel was staying at a villa near Bayeux, in a place deep in the countryside and quite remote. It had been used as a weekend retreat by the commanding general of the area who had been happy to offer it to the field marshal when he'd expressed a desire for a quiet weekend. The Bernards, who ran the house, were extremely discreet. The wife was an excellent cook, the husband acted as butler.
Baum drove to the house ahead of the field marshal that afternoon in a Kubelwagen wearing his own Fallschirmja-ger uniform. He also affected a heavy black patch over the right eye on Rommel's insistence. To Baum, he did not resemble the field marshal until he put on the clothes, changed his appearance with a few artful touches of makeup, the rubber cheekpads that made the face squarer. But the real change was in himself-the change that started inside. He thought Rommel, so he became Rommel. That was his unique talent as a performer.
Rommel and Hofer arrived later in the afternoon in the Mercedes driven by an engineer sergeant named Dreschler, an Afrika Korps veteran whom Hofer had specially selected. Madame Bernard provided the field marshal with a late luncheon in the drawing room. Afterward, Hofer brought Baum in to join them.
"Right, let's go over things," Rommel said.
"According to my information the people from Jersey will leave for Guernsey at around two in the morning. Ber-ger and I will leave here in the Kubelwagen at nine. There is an empty cottage on the estate a kilometer from here where we stop for him to change."
"And afterward?"
"To a Luftwaffe reserve airstrip only ten kilometers from here. There is a pilot, an Oberleutnant Sorsa, waiting there under your personal order with a Fiesler Storch."
"Sorsa? Isn't that a Finnish name?" Rommel asked.
"That's right."
"Then what's he doing with the Luftwaffe? Why isn't he on the Eastern Front shooting down Russians with his own people?"
"Sorsa is hot stuff, a real ace. One of the greatest night fighter pilots in the business. These days he's of more use flying over the Reich knocking down Lancaster bombers. He's an excellent choice for this venture. He doesn't fit into the usual Luftwaffe command structure. An outsider."
"They don't like us very much, the Finns," Rommel said. "IVe never trusted them." He lit a cigarette. "Still, carry on."
"Sorsa won't know his destination until we join the plane. I estimate we will land in Jersey around eleven o'clock. IVe given orders for Headquarters of Army Group B to notify Berlin at noon that youVe flown to Jersey. The reason for not letting them know earlier being the need to consider your safety when in flight."
"And what happens here?"
"Generals Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen arrive later in the day. Stay overnight and leave on Saturday morning."
"And you return in the evening?"
"Of course. This couple here at the house, the Bernards, will know you are here, but then they won't know you're also in Jersey. Neither will Sergeant Dreschler. He worships you anyway. An old desert hand. If there is any problem with him later, I can handle it."
Rommel turned to Baum. "And you, my friend, can you handle it?"
"Yes, Heir Field Marshal. I really think I can," Baum told him.
"Good." Rommel took the bottle of Dom Perignon from the ice bucket that Monsieur Bernard had brought in earlier and uncorked it. He filled three glasses and gave them one each. "So, my friends, to the Jersey enterprise."
