intentions are wildly wrong. And yet!" He paused for effect.
"And yet, despite all that, General Walter Bedell Smith Ike's Chief of
Staff -tells me that..." He picked up another piece of paper from the
table and read it aloud.
"Our chances of holding the beachhead, particularly after the Germans
get their buildup, are only fifty-fifty."
He put his cigar down, and his voice became quite soft.
"Itwill be June the fifth possibly the sixth or the seventh. The
tides are right... it has been decided. The build-up of troops in the
West Country has already begun. The convoys are even now making their
way along the country roads of England. It has taken the total
military and industrial might of the whole English-speaking world the
greatest civilization since the Roman Empire four years to win this
fifty-fifty chance. If this spy gets out, we lose even that."
He stared at Godliman for a moment, then he picked up his pen with a
frail white hand.
"Don't bring me probabilities, Professor," he said.
"Bring me the body of Die Nadel."
He looked down and began to write. After a moment Percival Godliman
got up and quietly left the room.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cigarette tobacco burns at eight hundred degrees centigrade. However,
the coal at the end of the cigarette is normally surrounded by a thin
layer of ash. To cause a burn, the cigarette has to be pressed against
the skin for the better part of a second: a glancing touch will hardly
be felt. This applies even to the eyes, for blinking is the fastest
involuntary reaction of the human body. Only amateurs throw
cigarettes. Professionals there are just a few people in the world for
whom hand-to-hand fighting is a professional skill ignore them.
Faber ignored the lighted cigarette that David Rose threw at him. He
did right, for the cigarette glanced off his forehead and fell to. the
metal floor of the jeep. Then he made a grab for David's gun, and this
was an error. He should have drawn his stiletto and stabbed David: for
although David might have shot him first, he had never before pointed a
gun at a human being, let alone killed somebody; so he would almost
certainly have hesitated, and in that moment Faber could have killed
him.
The mistake cost dear.
David had both hands on the midsection of the gun left hand on the
barrel, right hand around the breech and had pulled the weapon about
six inches from its rack when Faber got a one-handed grip on the
muzzle. David tugged the gun the toward himself, but for a moment
Faber's grasp held, and the gun pointed at the windscreen. Faber was a
strong man, but David was exceptionally strong. His shoulders, arms
and wrists had moved his body and his wheelchair for four years, and
the muscles had become abnormally developed. Furthermore, he had both
hands on the gun in front of him, and Faber was holding on with one
hand at an awkward angle. David tugged again, more determinedly this
time, and the muzzle slipped from Faber's grasp.
At that instant, with the shotgun pointed at his belly and David's
finger curling around the trigger, Faber felt very close to death.
He jerked upwards, catapulting himself out of his seat. His head hit
the canvas roof of the jeep as the gun exploded with a crash that
numbed the ears and produced a physical pain behind the eyes. The
window by the passenger seat shattered into innumerable small pieces
and the rain blew in through the empty frame. Faber twisted his body
and fell back, not on to his own seat, but across David. He got both
hands to David's throat and squeezed with his thumbs.
David tried to bring the gun around between their bodies to fire the
other barrel, but the weapon was too big. Faber in looked into his
eyes, and saw ... what was it? Exhilaration! Why Of course at last
the man had a chance to fight for his country. Then his expression
changed as his body felt the lack of nd oxygen and he began to fight
ovel bows back as far as he could, then punched Faber's lower ribs with
a powerful double jab. lber The pain was excruciating, and Faber
screwed up his face in anguish, but he held his grip on David's throat.
He knew he could withstand David's punches longer than David could on,
hold his breath. ave David must have had the same thought. He crossed
his forearms between their bodies and pushed Faber away; then, " when
the gap was a few inches wide, he brought his hands upin an
upward-and-outward blow against Faber's arms, breaking the
stranglehold. He bunched his right fist and swung downwards with a
mighty but unscientific punch which landed on Faber's cheekbone and
brought water to his eyes.
Faber replied with a series of body jabs; David continued to bruise his
face. They were too close together to do real damage to each other in
a short time, but David's greater strength began to tell.
Grimly, Faber realized that David had shrewdly picked the time and
place for the fight: he had had the advantages of surprise, the gun,
and the confined space in which his muscle counted for much and Faber's
better balance and greater manoeuvrability counted for little.
Faber shifted his weight slightly and his hip came into contact with
the gearshift, throwing the transmission into forward. The engine was
still running, and the car jerked, putting him off balance. David took
the opportunity to release a long straight left which more by luck than
judgement -caught Faber full on the chin and threw him clear across the
cab of the jeep. His head cracked against the A-post, he slumped with
his shoulder on the door handle, the door opened, and he fell out of
the car in a backward somersault to land on his face in the mud.
For a moment he was too dazed to move. When he opened his eyes he
could see nothing but flashes of blue lightning against a misty red
background. He heard the engine of the jeep racing. He shook his
head, desperately trying to clear the fireworks from his vision, and
struggled on to his hands and knees. The sound of the jeep receded and
came closer again. He turned his head toward the noise, and as the
colours in front of his eyes dissolved and disappeared, he saw the
vehicle bearing down on him at high speed. David was going to run him
over.
With the front bumper less than a yard from his face he hurled himself
sideways. He felt a blast of wind. A fender struck his outflung foot
as the jeep roared past, its heavy-gauge tyres tearing up the spongy
turf and spitting mud. He rolled over twice in the wet grass, then got
to one knee. Hisfoot hurt. He watched the jeep turn in a tight
circle and come for him again.
He could see David's face through the windscreen. The young man was
leaning forward, hunched over the steering wheel, his lips drawn back
over his teeth in a savage, almost maniacal grin. He seemed to be
imagining himself in die cockpit of a Spitfire, coming down out of the
sun at an enemy plane with all
eight Browning machine-guns blazing
1,260 rounds per minute.
Faber moved toward the cliff edge. The jeep gathered speed. Faber
knew that, for a moment, he was incapable of running. He looked over
the cliff: it was a rocky, almost vertical slope to the angry sea a
hundred feet below. The jeep was coming straight down the cliff's edge
toward him. Frantically, Faber looked up and down for a ledge, or even
a foothold. There was none.
The jeep was four or five yards away, travelling at something like
forty miles per hour. Its wheels were less than two feet from the
cliff's edge. Faber dropped flat and swung his legs out into space,
supporting his weight on his forearms as he hung on the brink.
The wheels passed him within inches. A few yards farther on, one tyre
actually slipped over the edge. For a moment Faber thought the whole
vehicle would slide over and fall into the sea below, but the other
three wheels dragged the jeep to safety.
The ground under Faber's arms shifted. The vibration of the jeep's
passing had loosened the earth. He felt himself slip a fraction. One
hundred feet below, a raging sea boiled among the rocks. Faber
stretched one arm to its farthest extent and dug his fingers deep into
the soft ground. He felt a nail tear, and ignored it. He repeated the
process with his other arm. With two hands anchored in the earth he
pulled himself upward. It was agonizingly slow, but eventually his
head drew level with his hands, his hips reached firm ground, and he
was able to swivel around and roll away from the edge.
The jeep was turning again. Faber ran toward it. His foot was
painful, but not broken. David accelerated for another pass. Faber
turned and ran at right angles to the jeep's direction forcing David
to turn the wheel and consequently slow down.
Faber could not keep this up much longer. He was certain to tire
before David. This had to be the last pass.
He ran faster. David steered an interception course, headed for a
point in front of Faber. Faber doubled back, and the jeep zigzagged.
It was now quite close. Faber broke into a sprint, his course
compelling David to drive in a tight circle. The jeep was getting
slower and Faber was getting closer. There were only a few yards
between them when David realized what Faber was up to. He steered
away, but it was too late. Faber raced to the jeep's side and threw
himself upwards, landing face down on top of the canvas roof.
He lay there for a few seconds, catching his breath. His injured foot
felt as if it was being held in a fire, and his lungs ached
painfully.
The jeep was still moving. Faber drew the stiletto from its sheath
under his sleeve and cut a long, jagged tear in the canvas roof. The
material flapped downwards and Faber found himself staring at the back
of David's head.
David looked up and back. A look of utter astonishment crossed his
face. Faber drew back his arm for a knife thrust.
David jammed the throttle open and heaved the wheel around. The jeep
leaped forward and lifted on two wheels as it screeched around in a
tight curve. Faber struggled to stay on. The jeep, gathering speed
still, crashed down on to four wheels then lifted again. It teetered
precariously for a few yards, then the wheels slipped on the sodden
ground and the vehicle toppled on to its side with a grinding crash.
Faber was thrown several yards and landed awkwardly. The breath was
knocked out of him by the impact. It was several seconds before he
could move.
The jeep's crazy course had taken it perilously close to the cliff once
more.
Faber saw his knife in the grass a few yards away. He picked it up,
then turned to the jeep.
Somehow, David had got himself and his wheelchair out through the
ripped roof, and he was now sitting in the chair and pushing himself
away along the cliff edge. Faber had to acknowledge his courage.
All the same, he had to die.
Faber ran after him. David must have heard the footsteps, for just
before Faber caught up the chair stopped dead and spun around; and
Faber glimpsed a heavy spanner in David's hand.
Faber crashed into the wheelchair, overturning it. His last thought
was that both men and the chair might end up in the sea below then the
spanner hit the back of his head and he blacked out.
When he came to, the wheelchair lay beside him, but David was nowhere
to be seen. He stood up and looked around in dazed puzzlement.
"Here!"
The voice came from over the cliff. David must have been flung from
the chair and slid over the edge. Faber crawled to the cliff and
looked over.
David had one hand around the stem of a bush which grew just under the
lip of the cliff. The other hand was jammed into a small crevice in
the rock. He hung suspended, just as Faber had a few minutes earlier.
His bravado had gone, and there was naked terror in his eyes.
"Pull me up, for God's sake," he shouted hoarsely.
Faber leaned closer.
"How did you know about the pictures? "he said.
"Help me, please!"
"Tell me about the pictures."
"Oh, God." David made a mighty effort to concentrate.
"When you went to Tom's outhouse you left your jacket drying in the
kitchen. Tom went upstairs for more whisky, and I went through your
pockets. I found the negatives."
"And that was evidence enough for you to try to kill me?" Faber said
wonderingly.
"That, and what you did with my wife in my house. No Englishman would
behave like that."
Faber could not help laughing.
"Where are the negatives now?"
"In my pocket."
"Give them to me, and I'll pull you up."
"You'll have to take them. I can't let go Faber lay flat on his stomach
and reached down, under David's oilskin, to the breast pocket of his
jacket. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as his fingers touched the film
can and withdrew it. He looked at the films: they all seemed to be
there. He put the can in the pocket of his jacket, buttoned the flap,
and reached down to David again.
He took hold of the bush David was clinging to and uprooted it with a
savage jerk.
David screamed: "No!" He scrabbled desperately for grip as his other
hand slipped inexorably out of the crack in the rock.
"It's not fair!" he screamed. Then his hand came away from the
crevice.
He seemed to hang in mid-air: then he dropped, faster and faster,
bouncing twice against the cliff on his way down, until he hit the
water with a huge splash.
Faber watched for a while to make sure he did not come up again.
"Not fair?" he murmured to himself.
"Not fair? Don't you know there's a war on?"
He looked down at the sea for some minutes. Once he thought he saw a
flash of yellow oilskin on the surface, but it was gone before he could
focus on it. There was just the sea and the rocks.
Suddenly he felt terribly tired. His injuries penetrated his
consciousness one by one:
the damaged foot, the bump on his head, the
bruises all over his face. David Rose had been a fool, a braggart and
a poor husband, and he had died screaming for mercy; but he had been a
brave man too, and he had died for his country he had got his wish.
Faber wondered whether his own death would be as good.
At last he turned away from the cliff edge and walked back toward the
overturned jeep.
20TWENTY-EIGHT
Percival Godliman felt refreshed, determined, even inspired.
When he reflected on it, this made him uncomfortable. Pep-talks are
for the rank-and-file, and intellectuals believe themselves immune from
inspirational speeches. Yet, although he knew that the great man's
performance had been carefully scripted, the crescendos and diminuendos
of the speech predetermined like a symphony, nevertheless it had worked
on him, as effectively as if he had been the captain of the school
cricket team hearing last-minute exhortations from the games master.
He got back to his office itching to do something.
He dropped his brolly in the umbrella-stand, hung up his wet raincoat,
and looked at himself in the mirror on the inside of the cupboard door.
Without doubt something had happened to his face since he became one of
England's spy-catchers. The other day he had come across a photograph