The Italian’s entry through the curtains the night before had certainly been as dramatic as it was unexpected. But his offer to throw in his lot with them made sense. Even if Orsini had been a thoroughgoing Fascist, it was reasonably certain who was going to win this war, and in Italy many of Mussolini’s most fervent followers had transferred their allegiance to the winning side without a moment’s hesitation. In any case, Orsini was not one of those. So Helen and Gallagher had assured him and so had Sarah, most fervently of all.
The young Italian came up the steps, saluted a couple of Kriegsmarine ratings and joined Martineau. “Let’s walk to the end of the pier.”
“What did you find out?” Martineau asked as they strolled along.
“A possible break. There’s a small convoy due in from Guernsey early Sunday morning. The master of one of the ships, a Dutch coaster called the Jan Kruger, was taken ill yesterday. The bosun is handling her as far as Jersey.”
“And then?”
“Our old friend Robert Savary takes command for the run to Granville.”
“That certainly is interesting,” Martineau said. “When can you speak to him?”
“There’s the snag. He was picked up after the Victor Hugo went down by one of the search and rescue craft from St. Malo. He’s due over from Granville early evening tomorrow on a fast patrol craft. What we call the dispatch boat.”
“And you think he might be willing to smuggle Kelso over?”
Orsini shrugged. “From what you have told me of his part in this business already, I should imagine him an eminently suitable candidate for applied pressure. After what he’s already done, I fail to see how he can say no.”
“True,” Martineau said. “And he knows that if he puts a foot wrong the Cressons and their friends will arrange his funeral, priest included, free of charge.” He smiled. “You know something, Count? I think you may well prove to be an asset to the corporation.”
“Fine,” said Guido. “Only let us understand each other.”
“Go on.”
“IVe had my bellyful of death and destruction. I’m tired of killing and sick of politics. The Allies are going to win this war, that is inevitable, so Jersey was the perfect billet for a sensible man to sit out the last few months in comfort. And don’t let’s pretend that anything that happens here will make the slightest difference. If the Germans got their hands on Kelso, Eisenhower’s invasion plans would, at the most, be seriously inconvenienced. He’d still win in the end. We’re engaged in a rather interesting game here. It’s true that it’s also a dangerous one, but still only a game.”
“Then why throw your hat in the ring?” Martineau asked.
“I think you know why,” Guido told him as they went down the steps to where his car was parked. He smiled amiably. “Be warned, my friend. There is nothing more dangerous than the libertine who suddenly finds he has fallen in love with a good woman.”
When the phone rang in his office at command headquarters Felix Necker was just about to leave to go riding on the beach at St. Aubin. He picked up the receiver and listened and a look of horror appeared on his face. “My
God! What’s his estimated time of arrival? All right. Arrange a guard of honor. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He slammed down the receiver and sat there for a moment thinking about things, then he picked it up again and dialed GFP Headquarters at the Silvertide.
“Herr Major,” Muller said when he was put through. “What can I do for you?”
“Rommel is due in at the airport in forty-five minutes.”
“Who did you say?” Muller demanded.
“Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, you idiot. He’s arriving with his aide, a Major Hofer, from Normandy in a Fiesler Storch.”
“But why?” Muller demanded. “I don’t understand.”
“Well I do,” Necker told him. “It all makes perfect sense. First of all his orders for Heine and the others to join General von Schmettow in Guernsey for the weekend, getting them all nicely out of the way so that he can fly in out of the blue and take the place apart. I know how Rommel operates, Muller. Hell go everywhere. Check every machine-gun post.”