'Yes, well, that could mean anything,' Benson said sourly. 'I'm going down to see Sister.'
She was in her office when he knocked and went in. She glanced up and smiled. 'You're back? Did you have a good leave?'
'Yes, not bad. Is Father Martin around?'
'Just went into the chapel to hear confessions. Anything I can do?'
'There was a Major Conlon here when I was away.'
'Ah, yes, the Army chaplain. A nice man. On sick leave. I understand he was wounded in Sicily last year.'
'Yes, but what was he doing here?'
'Nothing. We just showed him round and he took over for Father Martin one evening. He's not been well, you know.'
'Has he been back?'
'No. I understand from Father Martin that he's been posted. A military hospital in Portsmouth, I believe.' She looked slightly bewildered. 'Is anything wrong?'
'Oh, no, it's just that when unexpected guests turn up with War Office passes one likes to know who they are.'
'You worry too much,' she said.
'Probably. Good night, Sister.'
But it wouldn't go away, the nagging doubt, and when he got back upstairs to his office he phoned Dougal Munro.
Jack Carter had gone to York for the day. His train wasn't due into London until ten so Munro was working alone in his office when he took the call. He listened patiently to what Benson had to say.
'You were right to call me,' he said. 'I don't much like the idea of officers with War Office passes sticking their noses into our business, but there it is. One of the problems with using a place like the Priory, Benson. These religious types don't behave like other people.'
'I've got Conlon's details here on the admission sheet, sir. Do you want them?'
'Tell you what, I'm packing up here quite soon and going home,' Munro said. 'I'll call in and see you. About an hour and a half.'
Til expect you, sir.'
Benson put down the phone and Corporal Smith, standing at the door, said, 'You'll see Colonel Stei-ner's booked for chapel, sir.'
'What in the hell has he got to confess cooped up in here?' Benson demanded.
'Eight o'clock as usual, sir. Shall I do it with Corporal Ross?'
'No,' Benson said. 'We'll do it together. I'm expecting Brigadier Munro, but he won't be here until half past eight. Now get me a cup of tea.'
At Chernay, the elements were very definitely against them, fog rolling in from the sea and rain with it. Schellenberg and Asa Vaughan stood in the radio room waiting while Flight Sergeant Leber checked the situation with Cherbourg.
After a while he turned to them. 'The Fuhrer's plane got in all right, General. Landed at six just before this lot started.'
'So, what's the verdict?' Asa demanded.
'Parts of the Channel you'll find winds gusting up to Force Eight.'
'Hell, I can handle wind,' Asa said. 'What else do they say?'
'Fog over southern England, from London down to the Channel coast. Another thing. They say it will get worse here during the night.' He looked worried. To be frank, sir, it stinks.'
'Don't worry, Sergeant, I'll find a way.'
Asa and Schellenberg went out into the wind and rain and hurried across to the hut they were using. Schellenberg sat on one of the beds and poured Schnapps into an enamel cup. 'Do you want some?'
'Better not.' Asa lit a cigarette instead.
There was silence, then Schellenberg said, 'Look, if you think it's not on, if you don't want to go...'
'Don't be silly,' Asa told him. 'Of course I'm going. Devlin's depending on me. I can't leave him in the lurch. Wind doesn't bother me. I flew for the Finns in their Winter War, remember, when we had blizzards every day. Let me tell you about fog. Taking off in it's nothing, but landing is something else and it worries me that I might not be able to land when I get there.'
'Then you'll have to come back.'
'Fine, except for the fact that, as Leber has just informed us, it's not going to get any better here.'
'So what do you want to do?'
'Leave it as late as possible. Devlin wanted me there for a midnight departure. Let's cut it really close. I won't leave until ten o'clock. That will give the weather a chance to clear.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'I go anyway.'
'Fine.' Schellenberg got up. Til send a signal to that effect to Shaw Place now.'
Lavinia Shaw, seated at the radio in the study in her headphones took the message. She tapped out a quick reply: 'Message received and understood.' She took off her headphones and turned. Her brother sat by the fire, Nell at his feet, cleaning his shotgun, a tumbler of Scotch beside him.
'They won't be leaving until ten o'clock, darling, it's this damn weather.'
She went to the French windows, pulled back the curtains and opened the windows, looking out at the fog. Shaw moved to her side.
'I should have thought this bloody stuff was all to the good for this kind of secret landing.'
Lavinia said, 'Don't be silly, Max, it's the worst thing in the world for any pilot. Don't you remember when I couldn't land at Helmsley back in thirty-six? Stooged around until I ran out of fuel and crashed into that field wall? I was nearly killed.'
'Sorry, old girl, I was forgetting.' Rain started to spot the terrace in front of them, visible in the light from the window. 'There you are,' Shaw said. 'That should help clear it. Now close the window and let's have another drink.'
'You've got everything?' Michael Ryan asked as the motor boat coasted in to the little strand. Devlin wore loose blue overalls and boots. He tapped at his pockets, check-listing each item. 'Everything in perfect working order.'
Ryan said, 'I wish you'd let me come with you.'
'My affair, this one, Michael, and if there's the slightest hint of trouble you and Mary get the hell out of it. This bloody fog is a blessing in a way.' He turned and smiled at Mary through the darkness. 'You were right about that.'
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. 'God bless you, Mr Devlin. I've prayed for you.'
'Then everything will be all right,' and he went over the side.
The water was not quite as deep which was something and he moved on, the light from his lamp splaying against the tunnel until he reached the hole in the wall. He checked his watch. It was a couple of minutes past eight. He climbed in and waded through the water then started up the steps.
Dougal Munro had finished a little earlier than he had intended, so he called a staff car and told the driver to take him to St Mary's Priory. It was a difficult journey, crawling along at fifteen miles an hour in the fog, and it was just after eight o'clock when they arrived.
'I shan't be long,' the Brigadier said as he got out.
Til get off the road, sir, while I'm waiting,' his driver replied. 'Otherwise someone will be shunting me up the rear. I'll just turn up the side, sir. There's a yard there.'
'I'll find you.' Munro went up the steps and rang the bell at the door.
The night porter opened it to him. 'Good evening, Brigadier,' he said.
'Sister Maria about?' Munro asked.
'No, she was called to the Cromwell Road Hospital.'
'All right. I'll go on upstairs. I want to see Lieutenant Benson.'
'I saw him go in to the chapel a few minutes ago, sir, with one of the corporals and that German officer.'
'Really?' Munro hesitated, then crossed to the chapel door.
Devlin eased open the door at the top of the steps and got the shock of his life. Corporal Smith was standing with his back to him no more than six feet away. He was examining a religious figure. Benson was up by the door. Devlin didn't hesitate. He pulled out the sap and lashed Smith across the back of the neck and moved back into the shelter of the door as the corporal went down with a clatter. Benson called, 'Smith? What's going on?' He ran along the aisle and paused staring down at the body. It was then, sensing too late that something was very wrong indeed, that he reached for the Webley revolver in his holster.
Devlin stepped out, the silenced Walther in his left hand, the sap in his right. 'I wouldn't do that, son. This thing makes no more noise than you or me coughing. Now turn round.'
Benson did as he was told and Devlin gave him the same as Smith. The young lieutenant groaned, sank to his knees and fell across the corporal. Quickly Devlin searched them for handcuffs but only Smith appeared to be carrying them.
'Are you there, Colonel?' he called.
Steiner stepped out of the confessional box and Father Martin joined him. The old priest looked shocked and bewildered. 'Major Conlon? What's happening here?'
'I'm truly sorry, Father.' Devlin turned him round and handcuffed his wrists behind him.
He sat the old man down in a pew and took out one of his makeshift gags. Martin said, 'You're not a priest, I take it.'
'My uncle was, Father.'
'I forgive you, my son,' Frank Martin said and submitted himself to the gag.
At that moment, the door opened and Dougal Munro walked in. Before he could say a word, Kurt Steiner had him round, an arm like steel across his throat.
'And who might this be?' Devlin demanded.
'Brigadier Dougal Munro,' Steiner told him. 'Of SOE.'
'Is that a fact?' Devlin held the Walther in his right hand now. 'This thing is silenced as I'm sure you will know, Brigadier, so be sensible.'
Steiner released him and Munro said bitterly, 'My God, Devlin - Liam Devlin.'
'As ever was, Brigadier.'
'What happens now?' Steiner asked.
Devlin was excited, a little cocky. 'A short trip downriver, a gentle drive through the country and you'll be away while this lot are still running round in circles looking for us.'
'Which must mean you intend to fly,' Munro said. 'Very interesting.'
'Me and my big mouth,' groaned Devlin. He tapped Munro under the chin with the gun. 'If I leave you, you'll have the RAF on the job before we know where we are. I could kill you, but I'm in a very generous mood.'
'Which leaves what alternative?'
'We'll have to take you with us.' He nodded to Steiner. 'Watch him,' and eased open the door.
At that moment, the night porter emerged from his cubby-hole with a tray containing a pot of tea, two cups and a milk jug. He went up the stairs whistling.
Devlin said, 'Wonderful. No need for you lads to get your feet wet. We're going straight out of the front door and across the road. It's thick fog, so no one will notice a thing.' He opened the door and urged Munro across the hall, the Walther at his back. 'Don't forget, Brigadier. A wrong word and I blow your spine out.'
It was Steiner who opened the door and led the way down to the pavement. The fog was thick and brown as only a London pea-souper could be and tasted sour at the back of the throat. Devlin pushed Munro across the road, Steiner followed. They didn't see a soul, and alone in their private world they went down the steps to the strand. At the bottom, Devlin paused and passed the gun to Steiner.
'I've got friends I don't want this old bugger to see or he'll be hanging them at Wandsworth Gaol for treason.'
'Only if they deserve it,' Munro told him.
'A matter of opinion.'
Devlin quickly tied the Brigadier's hands with some of the twine he'd brought. Munro was wearing a silk scarf against the cold. The Irishman took that and bound it around his eyes.
'Right, let's go.'
He started along the strand, a hand at Munro's elbow and the motor boat loomed out of the darkness.
'Is that you, Liam?' Ryan called softly.
'As ever was. Now let's get the hell out of here,' Devlin replied.
In the bedroom, Devlin changed quickly into the clerical suit and a dark polo-neck sweater. He collected what few belongings he needed, put them in a holdall together with the Luger and the Walther. He checked the Smith & Wesson in the ankle holster, picked up the bag and went out. When he went into the kitchen, Steiner was sitting at the table drinking tea with Ryan, Mary watching him in awe.
'Are you fit, Colonel?' Devlin demanded.
'Never better, Mr Devlin.'
Devlin tossed him the military trenchcoat he'd stolen from the Army and Navy Club the day he'd met Shaw. 'That should do to cover the uniform. I'm sure Mary can find you a scarf.'
'I can indeed.' She ran out and returned with a white silk scarf which she gave to Steiner.
