Jack Higgins – Night of the Fox

“Perhaps, Herr Field Marshal.” Hofer was nervous and trying not to show it, wondering what Vogel wanted.

“To us, gentlemen.” Baum raised his glass. “To soldiers everywhere who always bear the burden of man’s stupidity.” He emptied his glass, smiled and said in English, “All right, Harry, let’s get on with it.”

Hofer looked totally bewildered and Martineau produced the Walther with the Carswell silencer from his trenchcoat pocket. “It would be stupid to make me shoot you. Nobody would hear a thing.” He removed the Mauser from Hofer’s holster. “Sit down.”

“Who are you?” Hofer demanded.

“Well I’m certainly not Standartenfuhrer Max Vogel any more than Heini here is the Desert Fox.”

“Heini?” Hofer looked even more bewildered.

“That’s me,” Baum said. “Heini Baum. Erich Berger was killed in an air raid on Kiel. I took his papers and joined the paratroops.”

“But why?”

“Well, you see, Herr Captain, I happen to be Jewish, and what better place for a Jew to hide?”

“My God!” Hofer said hoarsely.

“Yes, I thought you’d like that. A Jew impersonating Germany’s greatest war hero. A nice touch of irony there.”

Hofer turned to Martineau. “And you?”

“My name is Martineau. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Martineau. I work for SOE. I’m sure youVe heard of us.”

“Yes.” Hofer reached for his glass and finished the rest of his brandy. “I think you can say that.”

“Your boss is a lucky man. I was close to putting a bullet in him last night after you’d gone to bed. Happily for our friend here, he likes to talk to himself and I discovered all was not as it seemed.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Hofer asked.

“Simple. Field Marshal Rommel flies out in the mail plane tonight, not the Storch, which means I can leave with him, along with a couple of friends. Destination England.”

“The young lady?” Hofer managed a smile. “I liked her. I presume she also is not what she seems.”

“One more thing,” Martineau said, “but it’s important. You might wonder why I don’t shoot you. Well, Heini having a bad habit of listening at doors, I know where Rommel has been this weekend and what he’s been up to. The assassination of Hitler at this stage of the war would suit the Allied cause very well. In the circumstances, when we get back to England and I tell my people about this business, I think you’ll find they keep very quiet. We wouldn’t want to make things too difficult for Field Marshal Rommel, if you follow me. More power to his arm. I want you to live so you can tell him that.”

“And how does he explain to the Fuhrer what happened here?”

“I should have thought that rather simple. There’s been more than one plot against Rommel’s life already by French Resistance and Allied agents. The British nearly got him in North Africa, remember. To use Berger to impersonate him on occasion made good sense, and what happened here in Jersey proved it. If he’d come himself, he’d have died here. The fact that Berger has decided to change sides is regrettable, but hardly your fault.”

“Now you say Berger again.”

“I think he means you might overcomplicate things if you introduce the Jewish bit,” Heini told him.

“Something like that.” Martineau stood up. “All right, let’s have you upstairs.”

Hofer did as he was told, because he didn’t have any choice in the matter, and they followed him up and along the corridor to the small bedroom he had been using.

Through the half-drawn curtains he could see into the courtyard and over the wall to where Heider stood beside one of the armored personnel carriers.

“Obviously you don’t intend to kill me,” he said.

“Of course not. I need you to tell all to Rommel, don’t I?” Martineau replied. “Just keep still and don’t make a fuss and you’ll be fine.”

There was a burning pain in Hofer’s right arm and almost instantaneous darkness. Baum emptied the contents of the syringe before pulling it out, and Martineau eased the major down onto the bed, arranged his limbs in a comfortable position and covered him with a blanket.

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