"No, let's bring them all the way in. They can land where they started, Jack. Hornley Field. Let Fighter Command know. I want them down in one piece."
"And General Eisenhower, sir?"
"Well leave him until Kelso's actually on the ground." Munro stood up and reached for his jacket. "And well have the car round, Jack. We can get there in just over an hour. With any luck, we'll be able to greet them."
In the mail plane the atmosphere was positively euphoric as Martineau left Heini Baum in the cockpit to keep an eye on Sorsa and joined the others.
"Everything okay?" Kelso asked.
"Couldn't be better. 1 Ve made contact with our people in England. They're going to provide an escort to take us in, courtesy of the RAF." He turned and smiled at Sarah, taking her hand. She'd never seen him so excited. Suddenly he looked ten years younger. "You all right?" he asked her.
"Fine, Harry. Just fine."
"Dinner at the Ritz tomorrow night," he said.
"By candlelight?"
"Even if I have to take my own." He turned to Braun, the observer. "You said something about coffee, didn't you?"
Braun started to get up and the plane bucked wildly as a great roaring filled the night, then dropped like a stone. Braun lost his balance and Kelso rolled on the floor with a cry of pain.
"Harry!" Sarah screamed. "What is it?"
The plane regained some sort of stability and Martineau peered out one of the side windows. A hundred yards away on the port side flying parallel with them he saw a Junkers 88S, one of those deadly black twin-engined planes that had caused such catastrophic losses to RAF Bomber Command in the night skies of Europe.
"WeVe got trouble," he said. "Luftwaffe night fighter." He turned and wrenched open the cabin door and leaned into the cockpit.
Sorsa glanced over his shoulder, face grim and pale in the cockpit lights. "WeVe had it. He's come to take us back."
"Has he said so?"
"No. No radio contact at all."
"Why not? It doesn't make sense."
The JU88S suddenly climbed steeply and disappeared, and it was Heini who gave the only possible answer to the question. "Every kind of sense if they don't want us back, my friend."
Martineau saw it all then. Something had gone wrong and it had to involve Hofer, and if that were so, the last thing he'd want was to have them back in Gestapo hands to bring down Erwin Rommel.
"What do I do?" Sorsa demanded. "That thing can blow us out of the skies. I know. IVe been flying one for two years now."
At that moment, the roaring filled the night again, and the mail plane shuddered as cannon shell slammed into the fuselage. One came up through the floor of the cockpit, narrowly missing Sorsa, splinters shattering the windscreen. He pushed the column forward, going down in a steep dive into the cloud layer below, and the Junkers 88S roared overhead, passing like a dark shadow.
Martineau fell to one knee, but got the door open and scrambled out. Several gaping holes had been punched into the fuselage of the plane and two windows were shattered. Kelso was on the floor, hanging onto a seat and Sarah was crouched over Braun, who lay on his back, his uniform soaked with blood, eyes rolling. He jerked convulsively and lay still.
Sarah looked up, her face surprisingly calm. "He's dead, Harry."
There was nothing to say, couldn't be, and Martineau turned back to the cockpit, hanging on as the mail plane continued its steep dive down through the clouds. They rocked again in the turbulence as the Junkers 88S passed over them.
"Bastard!" Sorsa said, in a rage now. "Ill show you."
Baum, crouched on the floor, looked up at Harry with a ghastly smile. "He's a Finn, remember? They don't really like us Germans very much."
The mail plane burst out of the clouds at three thousand feet and kept on going down.
"What are you doing?" Martineau cried.
"Can't play hide and seek with him in that cloud. He'd get us for sure. Just one trick up my sleeve. He's very fast and I'm very slow and that makes it difficult for him." Sorsa glanced over his shoulder again and smiled savagely. "Let's see if he's any good."
He kept on going down, was at seven or eight hundred feet when the Junkers 88S came in again on their tail, far too fast, banking to port to avoid a collision.
Sorsa took the mail plane down to five hundred and leveled off. "Right, you swine, let's have you," he said, hands steady as a rock.
In that moment Martineau saw genius at work, understood all those medals the Finn wore, the Knight's Cross, and a strange feeling of calm enveloped him. It was all so unreal, the lights from the instrument panel, the wind roaring in through the shattered windscreen.
And when it happened, it was over in seconds. The Junkers 88S swooped in on their tail again, and Sorsa hauled back the column and started to climb. The pilot of the Junkers 888 banked steeply to avoid what seemed like an inevitable collision, but at that height and speed had nowhere else to go but straight down into the waves below.
Sorsa's face was calm again. "You lost, my friend," he said softly and eased back the column. "All right, let's get back upstairs."
Martineau pushed back the door and glanced out. The inside of the plane was a shambles, wind blowing in through innumerable holes, Braun's blood-soaked body on the floor, Sarah crouched beside Kelso.
"You two all right?" he called.
"Fine. Don't worry about us. Is it over?" Sarah asked.
"You could say that."
He turned back to the cockpit as Sorsa leveled out at six thousand feet. "So, the old girl's leaking like a sieve, but everything appears to be functioning," the Finn said.
"Let's try the radio." Martineau squeezed into the copilot's seat. He twisted the dial experimentally but everything seemed to be in working order. "I'll let them know what's happened," he said and started to transmit on the SOE emergency frequency.
Heini Baum tried to light a cigarette but his hands shook so much he had to give up. "My God!" he moaned. "What a last act."
Sorsa said cheerfully, "Tell me, is the food good in British prisoner-of-war camps?"
Martineau smiled. "Oh, I think you'll find we make very special arrangements for you, my friend." And then, he made contact with SOE Headquarters.
At the control room at Jersey, Adler stood by the radio, an expression of disbelief on his face. He removed the earphones and turned slowly.
"What is it, for God's sake?" Necker demanded.
"That was Cherbourg Control. TheyVe lost the JU88S."
"What do you mean, lost it?"
"They had the pilot on radio. He'd attacked several times. They suddenly lost contact and he disappeared from the radar screen. They think he's gone into the drink."
"I might have known," Hofer said softly. "A great pilot, Sorsa. An exceptional man. I should know. I chose him myself. And the mail plane?"
"Still on radar, moving up-Channel toward the English coast. No way on earth of stopping her."
There was silence. A flurry of rain drifted against the window. Necker said, "What happens now?"
"I'll leave in the Storch at dawn," Hofer told him. "The pilot of the mail plane can fly me. It's essential I get to Field Marshal Rommel as soon as possible."
"And what then?" Necker asked. "What happens when Berlin hears about this?"
"God knows, my friend." Hofer smiled wearily. "A bleak prospect-for all of us."
About fifteen minutes after Sorsa had changed course for the second time, Martineau received a response to his message.
"Come in, Martineau,"
"Martineau here," he answered.
"Your destination Hornley Field. Fly at five thousand feet and await further instructions. Escorts will assist. Should be with you in minutes."
Martineau turned to Sorsa who had his headphones on. "Did you get that?"
The Finn shook his head. "I don't understand English."
Martineau translated, then crouched down beside Baum. "So far, so good."
Baum sat up and pointed. "Look out there."
Martineau turned and saw, in the moonlight, a Spitfire take station to port. As he turned to check the starboard side, another appeared. He reached for the copilot's headphones.
A crisp voice said, "Martineau, do you read me?"
"Martineau here."
"You are now twenty miles east of the Isle of Wight. We're going to turn inland and descend to three thousand. I'll lead and my friend will bring up the rear. We'll shepherd you right in."
"Our pleasure." He translated quickly for Sorsa and sat back.
"Everything okay?" Baum asked.
"Fine. They're leading us in. Another fifteen minutes or so, that's all."
Baum was excited. This time when he took a cigarette from his case his hand was steady. "I really feel as if I'm breaking out of something."
"I know," Martineau said.
"Do you really? I wonder. I was at Stalingrad, did I tell you that? The greatest disaster in the history of the German Army. Three hundred thousand down the drain. The day before the airstrip closed I was wounded in the foot. I flew out in a good old JU52, just like this. Ninety-one thousand taken prisoner, twenty-four generals. Why them and not me?"
"I spent years trying to find answers to questions like that," Martineau told him.
"And did you?"
"Not really. In the end, I decided there weren't any answers. Also no sense and precious little reason."
He pulled down the earphones as the voice came over the air again, giving him new instructions and a fresh course. He passed them on to Sorsa. They descended steadily. A few minutes later, the voice sounded again. "Hornley Field, right in front. In you go."
The runway lights were plain to see, and this time Sorsa didn't need any translation. He reduced power and dropped his flaps to float in for a perfect landing. The escorting Spitfires peeled away to port and starboard and climbed into the night.
The Junkers started to slow, and Sorsa turned and taxied toward the control tower. He rolled to a halt, switched off the engines. Baum got up and laughed excitedly. "We made it!"
Sarah was smiling. She reached for Martineau's hand and held on tight and Kelso, on the floor, was laughing out loud. The feeling of release was fantastic. Baum got the door open and he and Martineau peered outside.
A voice called over a bullhorn, "Stay where you are."
A line of airmen in RAF blue, each carrying a rifle, moved toward them. There were other people in the shadows behind them, but Martineau couldn't make out who.
Baum jumped down onto the runway. The voice called again, "Stay where you are!"
Baum knotted the white scarf around his throat and grinned up at Harry, saluting him, touching the field marshal's baton to the rim of his cap. "Will you join me, Stan-dartenfuhrer?" And then he turned and strode toward the line of men, the baton raised in his right hand. "Put the rifles away, you idiots," he called in English. "All friends here."
There was a single shot. He spun around, took a couple of steps back toward the Junkers, then sank on his knees and rolled over.
Harry ran forward, waving his arms. "No more, you fools!" he shouted. "It's me, Martineau."
He was aware of the advancing line slowing and Squadron Leader Barnes was there, telling them to stay back. Martineau dropped to his knees. Baum reached up with his left hand and grabbed him by the front of the uniform.
"You were right, Harry," he said hoarsely. "No sense, no reason to anything."
"Quiet, Heini. Don't talk. We'll get a doctor."
Sarah was crouched beside him and Baum's grip lightened. "Last act, Harry. Say kaddish for me. Promise."
"I promise," Martineau said.
Baum choked, there was blood on his mouth. His body seemed to shake and then the hand lost its grip on Marti-neau's tunic and he lay still. Martineau got up slowly and saw Oougal Munro and Jack Carter standing in front of the line of RAF men beside Barnes.
"An accident, Harry," Munro said. "One of the lads panicked."
"An accident?" Martineau said. "Is that what you call it? Sometimes I really wonder who the enemy is. If you're still interested, by the way, you'll find your American colonel in the plane."
He went past them and through the line of airmen, walking aimlessly toward the old aero club buildings. Strange, but he had that pain in the chest again, and it hadn't bothered him once in Jersey. He sat down on the steps of the old clubhouse and lit a cigarette, suddenly cold. After a while, he became aware of Sarah sitting a few feet away.
