Jack Higgins – Night of the Fox

Martineau climbed in next to Sarah and fastened his seat belt. He didn’t look at her or say anything, but he took her hand as Green climbed into the pilot’s seat. The sound of the engines shattered the night. They started to taxi to the far end of the runway and turned. As they started to roll between the two lines of lights, gradually increasing speed, the Austin Princess turned in through the main gate, hesitated for the sentry’s inspection then bumped across the grass to the huts. As Dougal Munro got out, the Lysander lifted over the trees at the far end of the field and was swallowed by darkness.

“Damnation!” he said. “Held up at Baker Street, Jack. Something came up. Thought I’d just make it.”

“They couldn’t wait, sir,” Barnes told him. “Might have made things difficult at the other end.”

“Of course,” Munro said.

Barnes walked away and Carter said, “What did General Eisenhower have to say, sir?”

“What could he say. Jack? What can any of us say?” Munro shrugged. “The ball’s in Harry Martineau’s court now. All up to him.”

“And Sarah Drayton, sir.”

“Yes, I liked that young woman.” Aware suddenly that he had spoken in the past tense, Munro shivered as if at an omen. “Come on. Jack, let’s go home,” he said, and he turned and got back into the Austin.

Sophia Cresson waited on the edge of a wood beside the field seven miles northwest of Granville which was the designated landing strip. She was on her own and stood beside an old Renault van smoking a cigarette in her cupped hands. The door of the van was open, and a Sten gun lay ready to hand on the passenger seat. There was also the homing beacon. She’d waited at the bar until Gerard had received the message that they had actually left Hornley. Timing was critical in these things.

She wore a woolen cap pulled down over her ears against the cold, an old fur-lined hunting coat of Gerard’s, belted at the waist, and slacks. She wasn’t worried about problems with any security patrol she might run across. She knew all the soldiers in the Granville area and they knew her. As for the police, they did as they were told. There wasn’t one she didn’t know too much about. In the back of the van were several dead chickens and a few pheasants. Out on another black-market trip, that was her cover.

She checked her watch and switched on the homing beacon. Then she took three torches from the van and ran forward into the broad meadow and arranged them in an inverted L-shape with the crossbar at the upwind end. Then she moved back to the van and waited.

The flight had been completely uneventful, mainly because Green was an old hand, with more than forty such sorties under his belt. He had never belonged to the school of thought that recommended approaching the French coast below the radar screen. The one time he had tried this tactic the Royal Navy had fired at him. So, it was at 8,000 feet that the Lysander crossed over the Cherbourg Peninsula and turned slightly south.

He spoke over the intercom. “Fifteen minutes, so be ready.”

“Any chance of running into a night fighter?” Martineau asked.

“Unlikely. Maximum effort strike by Bomber Command on various towns in the Ruhr. Jerry will have scrambled every night fighter in France to go and protect the Fatherland.”

“Look!” Sarah cut in. “I can see lights.”

The L-shape was clearly visible below as they descended rapidly. “That’s it,” Green told them. “I’ve landed here twice before so I know my stuff. In and out very fast. You know the drill, Colonel.”

And then they were drifting down over the trees into the meadow, rolling forward across the lights. Sophie Cresson ran forward, waving, the Sten gun in one hand. Martineau got the door open, threw out the suitcases and followed them. He turned to help Sarah. Behind her, Green reached for the door and slammed it shut, locking the handle. The engine note deepened to a full-throated roar as the Ly-sander raced across the meadow and took off.