'Excellent. Excellent.'
He left them, then went and stood in the prow beside the six-pounder smoking a cigarette. 'It marches,' he said softly. 'It marches,' and his stomach was hollow with excitement.
6
Just before noon on Wednesday 6 October Joanna Grey took possession of a large envelope deposited inside a copy of The Times left on a certain bench in Green Park by her usual contact at the Spanish Embassy.
Once in possession of the package she went straight back to Kings Cross station and caught the first express north, changing at Peterborough to a local train for King's Lynn where she had left her car, taking advantage of the surplus she had managed to accumulate from the petrol allocation given to her for WVS duties.
When she turned into the yard at the back of Park Cottage it was almost six o'clock and she was dog tired. She let herself in through the kitchen where she was greeted enthusiastically by Patch. He trailed at her heels when she went into the sitting-room and poured herself a large Scotch - of which, thanks to Sir Henry Willoughby, she had a plentiful supply. Then she climbed the stairs to the small study next to her bedroom.
The panelling was Jacobean and the invisible door in the corner was none of her doing, but part of the original, a common device of the period and designed to resemble a section of panelling. She took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked the door. A short wooden stairway gave access to a cubby-hole loft under the roof. Here she had a radio receiver and transmitter. She sat down at an old deal table, opened a drawer in it, pushing a loaded Luger to one side and rummaged for a pencil, then took out her code books and got to work.
When she sat back an hour later her face was pinched with excitement. 'My God!' she said to herself in Afrikaans. 'They meant it - they actually meant it.'
Then she took a deep breath, pulled herself together and went back downstairs. Patch was waiting patiently at the door and followed at her heels all the way to the sitting-room where she picked up the telephone and dialled the number of Studley Grange. Sir Henry Willoughby himself answered.
She said, 'Henry - it's Joanna Grey.'
His voice warmed immediately. 'Hello there, my dear. I hope you're not ringing to say you won't be coming over for bridge or something. You hadn't forgotten? Eight-thirty?'
She had, but that didn't matter. She said, 'Of course not, Henry. It's just that I've got a little favour to ask and I wanted to speak to you privately about it.'
His voice deepened. 'Fire away, old girl Anything I can do '
'Well, I've heard from some Irish friends of my late husband and they've asked me to try and do something for their nephew. In fact, they're sending him over. He'll be arriving in the next few days.'
'Do what exactly.'
'His name is Devlin - Liam Devlin, and the thing is, Henry, the poor man was very badly wounded serving with the British Armv in France. He received a medical discharge and he's been convalescing for almost a year. He's quite fit now though and ready for work, but it needs to be the outdoor variety.'
'And you thought I might be able to fix him up?' said Sir Henry jovially 'No difficulty there, old girl. You know what it's like getting any kind of workers for the estate these days.'
'He wouldn't be able to do much at first.' she said 'Actually. I was wondering about the marsh warden's job at Hobs End. That's been vacant since young Tom King went off to the Army two years ago, hasn't it, and there's the house standing empty? It would be good to have somebody in. It's getting very run down.'
'I'll tell you what, Joanna, I think you might have something there. We'll go into the whole thing in depth. No sense in discussing it over bridge with other people there. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?'
'Of course,' she said 'You know, it's so good of you to help in this way, Henry. I always seem to be bothering you with my problems these days.'
'Nonsense,' he told her sternly 'That's what I'm here for. Woman needs a man to smooth over the rough spots for her.' His voice was shaking slightly.
'I'd better go now,' she said 'I'll see you soon.'
'Goodbye, my dear.'
She put down the receiver and patted Patch on the head and he trailed along at her heels when she went back upstairs. She sat at the transmitter and made the briefest of signals on the frequency of the Dutch beacon for onward transmission to Berlin. An acknowledgement that her instructions had been safely received and a given code word that meant that the business of Devlin's employment had been taken care of.
.
In Berlin it was raining, black, cold rain drifting across the city pushed by a wind so bitter that it must have come all the way from the Urals In the ante-room outside Himmler's office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, Max Radl and Devlin sat facing each other, as they had been sitting for more than an hour now.
'What in the hell goes on?' Devlin said 'Does he want to see us or doesn't he?'
'Why don't you knock and ask?' Radl suggested.
Just then the outer door opened and Rossman came in, beating rain from his slouch hat, his coat dripping water. He smiled brightly, 'Still here, you two?'
Devlin said to Radl, 'He's got the great wit to him, that one, isn't it a fact?'
Rossman knocked at the door and went in. He didn't bother closing it 'I've got him, Herr Reichsfuhrer.'
'Good,' they heard Himmler say 'Now I'll see Radl and this Irish fellow.'
'What in the hell is this?' Devlin muttered, 'A command performance?'
'Watch your tongue.' Radl said, 'and let me do the talking.'
He led the way into the room Devlin at his heels, and Rossman closed the door behind them. Everything was exactly the same as on that first night. The room in half-darkness, the open fire flickering, Himmler seated behind the desk.
The Reichsfuhrer said, 'You've done well, Radl I'm more than pleased with the way things are progressing. And this is Herr Devlin?'
'As ever was,' Devlin said cheerfully 'Just a poor, old Irish peasant straight out of the bog, that's me, your honour.'
Himmler frowned in puzzlement 'What on earth is the man talking about?' he demanded of Radl.
'The Irish, Herr Reichsfuhrer, are not as other people,' Radl said weakly.
'It's the rain.' Devlin told him.
Himmler stared at him in astonishment, then turned to Radl. 'You are certain he is the man for this?'
'Perfectly.'
'And when does he go?'
'On Sunday.'
'And your other arrangements? They are proceeding satisfactorily?'
'So far. My trip to Alderney I combined with Abwehr business in Paris and I have perfectly legal reasons for visiting Amsterdam next week. The Admiral knows nothing. He has been preoccupied with other matters.'
'Good.' Himmler sat staring into space, obviously thinking about something.
'Was there anything else, Herr Reichsfuhrer?' Radl asked as Devlin stirred impatiently.
'Yes, I brought you here for two reasons tonight. In the first place I wanted to see Herr Devlin for myself. But secondly, there is the question of the composition of Steiner's assault group.'
'Maybe I should leave,' Devlin suggested.
'Nonsense,' Himmler said brusquely. 'I would be obliged if you would simply sit in the corner and listen. Or are the Irish incapable of such a feat?'
'Oh, it's been known,' Devlin said. 'But not often.'
He went and sat by the fire, took out a cigarette and lit it. Himmler glared at him, seemed about to speak and obviously thought better of it. He turned back to Radl.
'You were saying, Herr Reichsfuhrer?'
'Yes, there seems to me one weakness in the composition of Steiner's group. Four or five of the men speak English to some degree, but only Steiner can pass as a native. This isn't good enough. In my opinion he needs the backing of someone of similar ability.'
'But people with that sort of ability are rather thin on the ground.'
'I think I have a solution for you,' Himmler said. 'There is a man called Amery - John Amery. Son of a famous English politician. He ran guns for Franco. Hates the Bolsheviks. He's been working for us for some time now.'
'Is he of any use?'
'I doubt it, but he came up with the idea of founding what he called the British Legion of St George. The idea was to recruit Englishmen from the prisoner of war camps, mainly to fight on the Eastern Front.'
'Did he get any takers?'
'A few - not many and mostly rogues. Amery has nothing to do with it now. For a while the Wehrmacht was responsible for the unit, but now the SS has taken over.'
'These volunteers - are there many?'
'Fifty or sixty as I last heard. They now rejoice in the name British Free Corps.' Himmler opened a file in front of him and took out a record card. 'Such people do have their uses on occasion. This man, for instance, Harvey Preston. When captured in Belgium he was wearing the uniform of a captain in the Cold-stream Guards, and having what I am informed are the voice and mannerisms of the English aristocrat, no one doubted him for sometime.'
'And he was not what he seemed?'
'Judge for yourself.'
Radl examined the card. Harvey Preston had been born in Harrogate, Yorkshire in 1916, the son of a railway porter. He had left home at fourteen to work as a prop boy with a touring variety company. At eighteen he was acting in repertory in Southport. In 1937 he was sentenced to two years imprisonment at Winchester Assizes on four charges of fraud.
Discharged in January. 1939, he was arrested a month later and sentenced to a further nine months on a charge of impersonating an RAF officer and obtaining money by false pretences. The judge had suspended the sentence on condition that Preston joined the forces. He had gone to France as an orderly room clerk with an RASC transport company and, when captured, held the rank of acting corporal.
His prison camp record was bad or good according to which side you were on, for he had informed on no fewer than five separate escape attempts. On the last occasion this had become known to his comrades and if he had not volunteered to serve in the Free Corps, he would in any case have had to be moved for reasons of his own safety.
Radl walked across to Devlin and handed him the card, then turned to Himmler. 'And you want Steiner to take this... this...'
'Rogue,' Himmler said, 'who is quite expendable, but who simulates the English aristocrat quite well? He really does have presence, Radl. The sort of man to whom policemen touch their helmets the moment he opens his mouth. I've always understood that the English working classes know an officer and a gentleman when they see one, and Preston should do very well.'
'But Steiner and his men, Herr Reichsfuhrer, are soldiers - real soldiers. You know their record. Can you see such a man fitting in? Taking orders?'
'He will do as he is told,' Himmler said. 'That goes without question. We'll have him in, shall we?'
He pressed the buzzer and a moment later, Rossman appeared in the doorway. 'I'll see Preston now.' Rossman went out, leaving the door open, and a moment later Preston entered the room, closed the door behind him and gave the Nazi Party salute.
He was at that time twenty-seven years of age, a tall, handsome man in a beautifully-tailored uniform of field grey. It was the uniform particularly which fascinated Radl. He had the death's head badge of the SS in his peaked cap and collar patches depicting the three leopards. Under the eagle on his left sleeve was a Union Jack shield and a black and silver cuff-title carried the legend in Gothic lettering, Britishes Freikorps.
'Very pretty,' Devlin said, but so softly that only Radl heard.
Himmler made the introductions. 'Untersturmfuhrer Preston - Colonel Radl of the Abwehr and Herr Devlin. You will be familiar with the role each of these gentlemen plays in the affair at hand from the documents I gave you to study earlier today.'
Preston half-turned to Radl, inclined his head and clicked his heels. Very formal, very military, just like someone playing a Prussian officer in a play.
'So,' Himmler said. 'You have had ample opportunity to consider this matter. You understand what is required of you?'
Preston said carefully, 'Do I take it that Colonel Radl is looking for volunteers for this mission?' His German was good, although the accent could have been improved on.
Himmler removed his pince-nez, stroked the bridge of his nose gently with a forefinger and replaced them with great care. It was a gesture somehow infinitely sinister. His voice, when he spoke, was dry leaves brushed by the wind. 'What exactly are you trying to say, Untersturmfuhrer?'
'It's just that I find myself in rather a difficulty here. As the Reichsfuhrer knows, members of the British Free Corps were given a guarantee that at no time would they have to wage war or take part in any armed act against Britain or the Crown or indeed to support any act detrimental to the interest of the British people.'
