Cold Harbour Read Online Free PDF Page B

black Luftwaffe overalls. Behind, in the hangar there was a Ju88 nightfighter.
    “My God,” Craig said softly.
    “I told you things were a little unusual here.”
    The pilot of the Stork clambered out, exchanged a word with the mechanics and came towards them. He wore flying boots, baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey as worn by Luftwaffe fighter pilots, very unusual, with large map pockets. The short Fliegerbluse gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilot’s badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it and the Luftwaffe National Emblem on the right.
    “Everything but the bloody Knight’s Cross,” Osbourne observed.
    “Yes, he is a bit of a fantasist, this lad,” Hare told him. “Also something of a psychopath if you want my opinion. Still, he did pull in two DFCs in the Battle of Britain.”
    The pilot approached. He was about twenty-five, the hair beneath the cap straw blond, almost white. Although he seemed to smile frequently, there was a touch of cruelty to the mouth and the eyes were cold.
    “Flight Lieutenant Joe Edge—Major Craig Osbourne, OSS.”
    Edge smiled charmingly enough and held out his hand. “Brigandage a speciality, eh?”
    Craig didn’t like him one little bit but tried not to show it. “You’ve got quite a set-up here.”
    “Yes, well the Stork can land and take off anywhere. Better than the Lysander in my opinion.”
    “Rather unusual camouflage, the Luftwaffe insignia.”
    Edge laughed. “Useful on occasions. Had a weather problem the other month so I was running short of juice. I landed at the Luftwaffe Fighter base at Granville. Got them to refuel me. No problem.”
    “We have these wonderful forged credentials from Himmler, countersigned by the Führer which indicate that we’re on special assignment for SS security. Nobody dares query that,” Hare said.
    “They even gave me dinner in the mess,” Edge told Craig. “Of course, my dear old mum being a Kraut, it does mean I speak the lingo fluently which helps.” He turned to Hare. “Give me a lift up to the manor will you, old boy? I hear the boss might be coming down from London.”
    “I didn’t know that,” Hare told him. “Hop in.”
    Edge got in the back. As they drove away, Craig said, “Your mother? She’s over here, presumably?”
    “Good God, yes. Widow. Lives in Hampstead. Greatest disappointment of her life was when Hitler didn’t manage to drive up the Mall to Buckingham Palace in 1940.”
    He laughed hugely. Craig turned away, disliking him even more and said to Hare, “I’ve been thinking. You said Section D of SOE was running this thing. Isn’t that the good old dirty tricks department?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Would Dougal Munro still be in charge there?”
    “You know him, too!”
    “Oh, yes,” Craig said. “I worked for SOE from the beginning. Before we came into the war. We’ve had dealings, me and Dougal. A ruthless old bastard.”
    “Which is how you win wars, old boy,” Edge commented from the rear.
    “I see. You’re an anything goes man, are you?” Craig asked.
    “Thought we all were in our business, old son.”
    For a moment, Craig saw General Dietrich’s frightened face through the confessional grille. He turned away, uncomfortable.
    Hare said, “He hasn’t changed—Munro. The motto really is anything goes, but I expect you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
    He turned in through cross gates and braked to a halt in a flagged courtyard. The house was grey stone, and three storeys high. Very old, very peaceful. Nothing to do with war at all.
    “Does it have a name?” Craig asked.
    “Grancester Abbey. Rather grand, eh?” Edge told him.
    Hare said, “Here we are then.” He got out of the jeep. “We’ll beard the ogre in his den if he’s here.”
    BUT AT THAT precise moment, Brigadier Dougal Munro was being admitted into the library at Hayes Lodge in London, the house which General Dwight D. Eisenhower was using as temporary headquarters.