Jack Higgins – Night of the Fox

“Heh, Pierre, open up!” He tried the latch and hammered with his fist and then the door opened so suddenly that he fell on his knees.

The muzzle of a Walther touched him between the eyes. The man holding it was about forty and dressed like a French farm laborer in beret, corduroy jacket and denim trousers, but his German was impeccable. “Please stand, Major Martineau, and walk inside very slowly.”

He followed Martineau along the corridor into the kitchen. Pierre Duval sat at the table, tied to a chair, a handkerchief in his mouth, eyes wild, blood on his face.

“Hands on the wall and spread,” the German said, and ran his hands expertly over Martineau, relieving him of the Schmeisser and the Mauser.

He moved to the old-fashioned telephone on the wall and gave the operator a number. After a while he said, “Schmidt? He turned up. Yes, Martineau.” He nodded. “All right,fifteen minutes.”

“Friend of yours?” Martineau inquired.

“Not really. I’m Abwehr. Kramer’s the name. That was the Gestapo. I don’t like those swine any more than you do, but we all have a job to do. Take your helmet and raincoat off. Make yourself comfortable.”

Martineau did as he was told. Evening was falling fast outside, the room was getting quite dark. He put the helmet and coat down and stood there in the SS uniform, aware of Pierre on the other side of the table, eyes glaring wildly, leaning back in his chair, his feet coming up.

“What about a drink?”Martineau asked.

“My God, they told me you were a cool one,” Kramer said admiringly.

Pierre lunged with his feet at the edge of the table ramming it into the German’s back. Martineau’s left hand deflected the pistol and he closed, raising his knee. But Kramer turned a thigh, raising stiffened fingers under Martineau’s chin, jerking back his head. Martineau hooked Kramer’s left leg, sending the German crashing to the ground, going down with him, reaching for the wrist of the hand that held the pistol, smashing his fist into the side of Kramer’s neck, aware of the pistol exploding between them,.

There was the distinct sound of bone cracking and the German lay still, alive, but moaning softly. Martineau got to his feet feeling suddenly weak and faint, opened the table drawer, spilling its contents on the floor and picked up a breadknife. He moved behind Pierre and sliced the ropes that bound him to the chair. The old Frenchman jumped up, pulling the gag from his mouth.

“My God, Harry, I’ve never seen so much blood.”

Martineau glanced down. The front of the SS blouse was soaked in blood. His own blood and there were three bullet holes that he could see, one of them, smoldering slightly from powder burns.

He slumped into the chair. “Never mind that.”

“Did you get him, Harry? Did you get Kaufmann?”

“I got him, Pierre,” Martineau said wearily. “When’s the pickup?”

“The old aero club at Fleurie at seven, just before dark.”

Martineau looked at his watch. “That only gives me half an hour. Youll have to come too. Nowhere else for you to go now.”

He got to his feet and started for the door, swaying a little, and the Frenchman put an arm around him. “Youll never make it, Harry.”

“I’d better because about five minutes from now the Gestapo are going to be coming up that road,”Martineau told him and went outside.

He got the bike off the stand and threw a leg across the saddle, then he kicked it into life, feeling curiously as if everything was happening in slow motion. Pierre climbed up behind and put his arms around him and they rode away, out of the yard and along the lane.

As they turned into the road at the end, Martineau was aware of two dark sedans coming up fast on his left. One of them, skidded to a halt, almost driving him into the ditch. He swung the motorcycle to the right, wheels spinning as he gunned the motor, was aware of shots, a sudden cry from Pierre, hands loosening their hold as the old Frenchman went backward over the rear wheel.