Jack Higgins – Night of the Fox

“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.”

Sarah and Martineau had spent an enlightening afternoon, driving to Gorey where she had intended to show him Mont Orgeuil, one of the most magnificent castles in Europe, only to find that it was now a heavily defended enemy strongpoint.

At Fliquet Bay, they had come across a party of slave workers cutting a new road through to a coastal artillery battery. They were the most ragged, filthy, undernourished creatures even Martineau had seen. He had made himself known to the sergeant in charge of the detail who told him they were Russians. It was particularly ironic, therefore, to discover a battalion of the Russian Liberation Army staffed mainly by Ukrainians, guarding the north coast around Bonne Nuit Bay.

They carried on to Grosnez with the few stones remaining of its medieval castle and spectacular views of Sark, Herm and Jethou, all reaching toward Guernsey. The interesting thing was that not once were they stopped or challenged, even when they drove along the Five Mile Road following the curve of St. Ouen’s Bay, which looked to Martineau like the most heavily defended stretch they’d seen.

It was evening when they stopped at the church at the end of St. Brelade’s Bay. Sarah got out and he followed her. They stood in the archway and peered inside. There was an entire section devoted to the military, rows of crosses, each one at the end of a neat grave.

“I don’t know what Christ would have made of those crosses,” Martineau said. “There’s a swastika in the center of each one.”

She shivered. “I used to attend this church. I had my first communion here.”

Martineau walked idly between the rows of German crosses. “There’re a couple of Italians here and a Russian.” He carried on, moving into the older section of the cemetery, passing between granite headstones and tombs. “Strange,” he said. “I feel quite at home.”

“That’s a morbid thought,” Sarah told him.

“Not really. I just find it extraordinarily peaceful and the view of the bay is sensational. Still I suppose we should be getting back now.”

They got in the Kubelwagen and drove past the bay along Mont Sohier. Sarah said, “So, now youVe had the guided tour. What do you think?”

“A tight little island.”

“And how do we get Hugh Kelso off it?”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea, so if you can think of anything, let me know.”

He carried on driving, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

Dinner was a strange affair. Martineau and Sarah joined the officers in the main dining room. Guido Orsini, Bruno Feldt, Kapitanleutnant Erich Dietrich and several others. There was a fresh lighted candle at each empty place which Sarah found rather macabre, but the young officers were polite and considerate, would obviously have put themselves out even more if it had not been for Martineau’s presence. He was wearing his uniform in deference to the formality of the meal, and its effect on the others had been definitely depressing. Helen de Ville passed in and out with the plates, and

Sarah, bored with the stilted conversation, insisted on helping her to clear the table and joined her in the kitchen, where Sean Gallagher sat at the table eating the leftovers.

“Terrible in there. Harry’s like a specter at the feast,” she said.

Helen had just prepared a tray for Kelso. ‘Ill just take this up while they’re all still in the dining room.”

She went up the back stairs and opened the door to the master bedroom at the same moment that Guido Orsini passed the end of the corridor. He saw her, noted the tray in astonishment and moved cautiously along the corridor. He hesitated, then tried the door of her bedroom. Helen, for once, had omitted to turn the key. He peered inside, saw the secret door ajar and tiptoed across. There was a murmur of voices from upstairs. He listened for a moment, then turned and went out again, closing the door.

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