Eye Of The Needle

"Second, the reasoning. I have given some thought to how I would invade France if I were commanding the Allied forces. My conclusion is that the first goal must be to establish a bridgehead through which men and supplies can be funnelled at speed. The initial thrust must therefore come in the region of a large and capacious harbour. The natural choice is Cherbourg. Both the bombing pattern and the strategic requirements point to Normandy," he finished. He picked up his glass and emptied it, and the footman came forward to refill it.



Jodl said, "All our intelligence points to Calais-"



"And we have just executed the head of the Abwehr as a traitor," Hitler interrupted.



"Krancke, are you convinced?"



"I am not," the admiral said. "I too have considered how I would conduct the invasion if I were on the other side but I have brought into the reasoning a number of factors of a nautical nature that our colleague Rundstedt may not have comprehended. I believe they will attack under cover of darkness, by moonlight, at full tide to sail over Rommel's underwater obstacles, and away from cliffs, rocky waters, and strong currents. Normandy? Never."



Hitler shook his head in disagreement. Jodl then said, "There is another small piece of information I find significant. The Guards Armoured Division has been transferred from the north of England to Hove, on the southeast coast, to join the First United States Army Group under General Patton. We learned this from wireless surveillance. There was a baggage mix-up en route, one unit had another's silver cutlery, and the fools have been quarrelling about it over the radio. This is a crack British division, very blue-blooded, commanded by General Sir Allen Henry Shafto Adair. I feel sure they will not be far from the centre of the battle when it comes."



Hitler's hands moved nervously, and his face now twitched in indecision. "Generals!" he barked at them, "Either I get conflicting advice, or no advice at all. I have to tell you everything."



With characteristic boldness, Rundstedt plunged on. "My Fuehrer, you have four superb panzer divisions doing nothing here in Germany. If I am right, they will never get to Normandy in time to repel the invasion. I beg you, order them to France and put them under Rommel's command. If we are wrong, and the invasion begins at Calais, they will at least be close enough to get into the battle at an early stage."



"I don't know. I don't know!" Hitler's eyes widened, and Rundstedt wondered if he had pushed too hard again.



Puttkamer spoke now for the first time. "My Fuehrer, today is Sunday."



"Well?"



"Tomorrow night the U-boat may pick up the spy, Die Nadel."



"Ah, yes, someone I can trust."



"Of course he can report by radio at any time, though that would be dangerous."



Rundstedt said, "There isn't time to postpone decisions. Both air attacks and sabotage activities have increased dramatically. The invasion may come any day."



"I disagree," Krancke said. "The weather conditions will not be right until early June-"



"Which is not very far away-"



"Enough," Hitler shouted. "I have made up my mind. My panzers stay in Germany for now. On Tuesday, by which time we should have heard from Die Nadel, I will reconsider the disposition of these forces. If his information favours Normandy as I believe it will, I will move the panzers."



Rundstedt said quietly, "And if he does not report?"



"If he does not report, I shall reconsider just the same."



Rundstedt nodded assent. "With your permission I will return to my command."



"Granted."



Rundstedt got to his feet, gave the military salute and went out. In the copper-lined elevator, falling four hundred feet to the underground garage, he felt his stomach turn over and wondered whether the sensation was caused by the speed of descent or by the thought that the destiny of his country lay in the hands of a single spy, whereabouts unknown.



PART SIX



Lucy woke up slowly. She rose gradually, languidly, from the warm void of deep sleep, up through layers of unconsciousness, perceiving the world piece by isolated piece: first the warm, hard male body beside her; then the strangeness of Henry's bed; the noise of the storm outside, as angry and tireless as yesterday and the day before; the faint smell of the man's skin; her arm across his chest, her leg thrown across his as if to keep him there, her breasts pressed against his side; the light of day beating against her eyelids; the regular, light breathing that blew softly across her face; and then, all at once like the solution to a puzzle, the realisation that she was flagrantly and adulterously lying with a man she had met only forty-eight hours before, and that they were naked in bed in her husband's house. For the second time.



She opened her eyes and saw Jo. My God... she'd overslept.



He was standing beside the bed in his rumpled pyjamas, hair tousled, a battered rag doll under his arm, sucking his thumb and staring wide-eyed at his mummy and the strange man cuddling each other in bed. Lucy could not read his expression, for at this time of day he stared wide-eyed at most things, as if all the world was new and marvellous every morning. She stared back at him in silence, not knowing what to say.



Then Henry's deep voice said, "Good morning."



Jo took his thumb out of his mouth, said, "Good mornin'," turned around and went out of the bedroom.



"Damn, damn," Lucy said.



Henry slid down in the bed until his face was level with hers, and kissed her. His hand went between her thighs and held her possessively. She pushed him away. "For God's sake, stop."



"Why?"



"Jo's seen us."



"So what?"



"He can talk, you know. Sooner or later he'll say something to David. What am I going to do?"



"Do nothing. Does it matter?"



"Of course it matters."



"I don't see why, the way he is. You shouldn't feel guilty."



Lucy suddenly realised that Henry simply had no conception of the complex tangle of loyalties and obligations that constituted a marriage. Any marriage, but especially here. "It's not that simple," she said.



She got out of bed and crossed the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped into panties, trousers and a sweater, then remembered she had destroyed all Henry's clothes and had to lend him some of David's. She found underwear and socks, a knitted shirt and a V-necked pullover, and finally right at the bottom of a trunk one pair of trousers that were not cut off at the knee and sewn up. All the while Jo watched her in silence.



She took the clothes into the other bedroom. Henry had gone into the bathroom to shave. She called through the door, "Your clothes are on the bed."



She went downstairs, lit the stove in the kitchen and put a saucepan of water on to heat. She decided to have boiled eggs for breakfast. She washed Jo's face at the kitchen sink, combed his hair and dressed him quickly.



"You're very quiet this morning," she said brightly. He made no reply.



Henry came down and sat at the table, as naturally as if he had been doing it every morning for years. Lucy felt very weird, seeing him there in David's clothes, handing him a breakfast egg, putting a rack of toast on the table in front of him. Jo said suddenly, "Is my daddy dead?" Henry gave the boy a look and said nothing. Lucy said, "Don't be silly. He's at Tom's house."



Jo ignored her and spoke to Henry. "You've got my daddy's clothes, and you've got mummy. Are you going to be my daddy now?"



Lucy muttered, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings..."



"Didn't you see my clothes last night?" Henry said. Jo nodded.



"Well, then, you know why I had to borrow some of your daddy's clothes. I'll give them back to him when I get some more of my own."



"Will you give my mummy back?"



"Of course." Lucy said, "Eat your egg, Jo."



The child went at his breakfast, apparently satisfied. Lucy was gazing out of the kitchen window. "The boat won't come today," she said.



"Are you glad?" Henry asked her.



She looked at him. "I don't know."



Lucy didn't feel hungry. She drank a cup of tea while Jo and Henry ate. Afterward Jo went upstairs to play and Henry cleared the table. As he stacked crockery in the sink he said, "Are you afraid David win hurt you? Physically?"



She shook her head "No."



"You should forget him," Henry went on. "You were planning to leave him anyway. Why should it concern you whether he knows or not?"



"He's my husband. That counts for something. The kind of husband he's been... all that... doesn't give me the right to humiliate him."



"I think it gives you the right not to care whether he's humiliated or not."



"It's not a question that can be settled logically. It's just the way I feel."



He made a giving-up gesture with his arms. "I'd better drive over to Tom's and find out whether your husband wants to come back. Where are my boots?"



"In the living room. I'll get you a jacket." She went upstairs and got David's old hacking jacket out of the wardrobe. It was a fine grey-green tweed, very elegant with a nipped-in waist and slanted pocket flaps. Lucy had put leather patches on the elbow to preserve it; you couldn't buy clothes like this anymore. She took it down to the living room, where Henry was putting his boots on. He had laced the left one and was gingerly inserting his injured right foot into the other. Lucy knelt to help him.



"The swelling has gone down," she said.



"The damned thing still hurts."



They got the boot on but left it untied and took the lace out. Henry stood up experimentaUy.



"It's okay," he said.



Lucy helped him into the jacket. It was a bit tight across the shoulders.



"We haven't got another oilskin," she said.



"Then I'll get wet." He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. She put her arms around him and held tightly for a moment.



"Drive more carefully today," she said.



He smiled and nodded, kissed her again-briefly this time-and went out. She watched him limp across to the barn, and stood at the window while he started the jeep and drove away up the slight rise and out of sight. When he had gone she felt relieved, but also empty.



She began to put the house straight, making beds and washing dishes, cleaning and tidying; but she could summon up no enthusiasm for it. She was restless.



She worried at the problem of what to do with her life, following old arguments around in familiar circles, unable to put her mind to anything else. She again found the cottage claustrophobic. There was a big world out there somewhere, a world of war and heroism, full of colour and people, millions of people; she wanted to be out there in the midst of it, to meet new minds and see cities and hear music. She turned on the radio; a futile gesture. The news broadcast made her feel more isolated, not less. There was a battle report from Italy, the rationing regulations had been eased a little, the London stiletto murderer was still at large, Roosevelt had made a speech. Sandy Macpherson began to play a theatre organ, and Lucy switched off. None of it touched her, she did not live in that world.



She wanted to scream.



She had to get out of the house, in spite of the weather. It would be only a symbolic escape... the stone walls of the cottage were not, after all, what imprisoned her; but the symbol was better than nothing. She collected Jo from upstairs, separating him with some difficulty from a regiment of toy soldiers and wrapped him up in waterproof clothing.



"Why are we going out?" he asked.



"To see if the boat comes."



"You said it won't come today."



"Just in case."



They put bright yellow sou'westers on their heads, lacing them under their chins, and stepped outside the door.



The wind was like a physical blow, unbalancing Lucy so that she staggered.



In seconds her face was as wet as if she had dipped it in a bowl, and the ends of hair protruding from under her hat lay limp and clinging on her cheeks and the shoulders of her oilskin. Jo screamed with delight and jumped in a puddle.



They walked along the cliff top to the head of the bay, and looked down at the huge North Sea rollers hurling themselves to destruction against the cliffs and on the beach. The storm had uprooted underwater vegetation from God only knew what depths and flung it in heaps on the sand and rocks. Mother and son became absorbed in the ceaselessly shifting patterns of the waves.



They had done this before; the sea had a hypnotic effect on both of them, and Lucy was never quite sure afterward how long they had spent watching silently.



Its spell this time was broken by something she saw. At first there was only a flash of colour in the trough of a wave, so fleeting that she was not certain what colour it had been, so small and far away that she immediately doubted whether she had seen it at all. She looked for it but did not see it again, and her gaze drifted back to the bay and the little jetty on which flotsam gathered in drifts only to be swept away by the next big wave. After the storm, on the first fine day, she and Jo would go beachcombing to see what treasures the sea had disgorged and come back with oddly coloured rocks, bits of wood of mystifying origin, huge seashells, and twisted fragments of rusted metal.



She saw the flash of colour again, much nearer, and this time it stayed within sight for a few seconds. It was bright yellow, the colour of all their oilskins. She peered at it through the sheets of rain but could not identify its shape before it disappeared again. Now the current was bringing it closer, as it brought everything to the bay, depositing its rubbish on the sand like a man emptying his trouser pocked onto a table.



It was an oilskin: she could see that when the sea lifted it on the crest of a wave and showed it to her for the third and final time. Henry had come back without his, yesterday, but how had it got into the sea? The wave broke over the jetty and flung the object on the wet wooden boards of the ramp, and Lucy realised it was not Henry's oilskin, because the owner was still inside it. Her gasp of horror was whipped away by the wind so that not even she could hear it. Who was he? Where had he come from? Another wrecked ship?



It occurred to her that he might still be alive. She must go and see. She bent and shouted in Jo's ear: "Stay here. Keep still. Don't move." Then she ran down the ramp.



Halfway down she heard footsteps behind her. Jo was following her. The ramp was narrow and slippery, quite dangerous. She stopped, turned and scooped the child up in her arms. "You naughty boy, I told you to wait!" She looked from the body below to the safety of the clifftop, dithered for a moment in painful indecision, discerned that the sea would wash the body away at any moment, and proceeded downward, carrying Jo.



A smaller wave covered the body, and when the water receded Lucy was close enough to see that it was a man, and that it had been in the sea long enough for the water to swell and distort the features. Which meant he was dead. She could do nothing for him, and she was not going to risk her life and her son's to preserve a corpse. She was about to turn back when something about the bloated face struck her as familiar. She stared at it, uncomprehending, trying to fit the features to something in her memory; and then, quite abruptly, she saw the face for what it was, and sheer, paralysing terror took hold of her, and it seemed that her heart stopped, and she whispered, "No, David, no!"



Oblivious now to the danger she walked forward.



Another lesser wave broke around her knees, filling her Wellington boots with foamy saltwater but she didn't notice. Jo twisted in her arms to face forward. She screamed, "Don't look!" in his ear and pushed his face into her shoulder. He began to cry.



She knelt beside the body and touched the horrible face with her hand. David. There was no doubt. He was dead, and had been for some time. Moved by some terrible need to make absolutely certain, she lifted the skirt of the oilskin and looked at the stumps of his legs.



It was impossible to take in the fact of the death. She had, in a way, been wishing him dead, but her feelings about him were confused by guilt and the fear of being found out in her infidelity. Grief, horror, relief: they fluttered in her mind like birds, none of them willing to settle. She would have stayed there, motionless, but the next wave was a big one.



Its force knocked her flying, and she took a great gulp of sea water. Somehow she managed to keep Jo in her grasp and stay on the ramp; and when the surf settled she got to her feet and ran up out of the greedy reach of the ocean. She walked all the way to the clifftop without looking back. When she came within sight of the cottage, she saw the jeep standing outside. Henry was back.



Still carrying Jo, she broke into a stumbling run, desperate to share her hurt with Henry, to feel his arms around her and have him comfort her. Her breath came in ragged sobs and tears mixed invisibly with the rain on her face. She went to the back of the cottage, burst into the kitchen and dumped Jo ungently on the floor.



Henry casually said, "David decided to stay over at Tom's another day."



She stared at him, her mind a disbelieving blank; and then, still disbelieving, she understood. Henry had killed David.



The conclusion came first, like a punch in the stomach, winding her; the reasons followed a split-second later. The shipwreck, the odd-shaped knife he was so attached to, the crashed jeep, the news bulletin about the London stiletto murderer: suddenly everything fitted together, a box of jigsaw pieces thrown in the air and landing, improbably, fully assembled. "Don't look so surprised," Henry said with a smile. "They've got a lot of work to do over there, although I admit I didn't encourage him to come back."



Tom. She had to go to Tom. He would know what to do; he would protect her and Jo until the police came; he had a dog and a gun.



Her fear was interrupted by a dart of sadness, of sorrow for the Henry she had believed in, had almost loved; clearly he did not exist-she had imagined him. Instead of a warm, strong, affectionate man, she saw in front of her a monster who sat and smiled and calmly gave her invented messages from the husband he had murdered.



She forced herself not to shudder. Taking Jo's hand, she walked out of the kitchen, along the hall and out of the front door. She got into the jeep, sat Jo beside her, and started the engine.



But Henry was there, resting his foot casually on the running board, and holding David's shotgun. "Where are you going?



If she drove away now he might shoot- hat instinct had warned him to take the gun into the house this time?-and while she herself might chance it, she couldn't endanger Jo. She said, "Just putting the jeep away."



"You need Jo's help for that?"



"He likes the ride. Don't cross-examine me!"



He shrugged and stepped back.



She looked at him for a moment, wearing David's hacking jacket and holding David's gun so casually, and wondered whether he really would shoot her if she simply drove away. And then she recalled the vein of ice she had sensed in him right from the start, and knew that that ultimate commitment, that ruthlessness, would allow him to do anything.



With an awful feeling of weariness, she threw the jeep into reverse and backed into the barn. She switched off, got out, and walked with Jo back into the cottage. She had no idea what she would say to Henry, what she would do in his presence, how she would hide her knowledge if, indeed, she had not already betrayed it. She had no plans. But she had left the barn door open.



"That's the place, Number One," the captain said, and lowered his telescope. The first mate peered out through the rain and the spray. "Not quite the ideal holiday resort, what, sir? Jolly stark, I should say."



"Indeed." The captain was an old-fashioned naval officer with a grizzled beard who had been at sea during the first war with Germany. However, he had learned to overlook his first mate's foppish conversational style, for the boy had turned out against all expectations to be a perfectly good sailor.



The "boy" who was past thirty and an old salt by this war's standards, had no idea of the magnanimity he benefitted from. He held on to a rail and braced himself as the corvette mounted the steep side of a wave, righted itself at the crest and dived into the trough. "Now that we're here, sir, what do we do?"



"Circle the island."



"Very good, sir."



"And keep our eyes open for a U-boat."



"We're not likely to get one anywhere near the surface in this weather and if we did, we couldn't see it unless it came within spitting distance."



"The storm will blow itself out tonight-tomorrow at the latest." The captain began stuffing tobacco into a pipe.



"Do you think so?"



"I'm sure."



"Nautical instinct, I suppose?"



"The weather forecast."



The corvette rounded a headland, and they saw a small bay with a jetty.



Above it, on the cliff top, was a little cottage standing small and square, hunched against the wind.



The captain pointed. "We'll land a party there as soon as we can."



The first mate nodded. "All the same..."



"Well?"



"Each circuit of the island will take us about an hour, I should say."



"So?"



"So, unless we're jolly lucky and happen to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time..."



"The U-boat will surface, take on its passenger, and submerge again without us even seeing the ripples," the captain finished. "



Yes."



The captain lit his pipe with an expertise that spoke of long experience in lighting pipes in heavy seas. He puffed a few times, then inhaled a lungful of smoke "Ours not to reason why," he said, and blew smoke through his nostrils.



"A rather unfortunate quotation, sir."



"Why?"



"It refers to the notorious charge of the Light Brigade."



"I never knew that." The captain puffed away. "One advantage of being uneducated, I suppose."



There was another small cottage at the eastern end of the island. The captain scrutinised it through his telescope and observed that it had a large, professional-looking radio aerial. "Sparks!" he called. "See if you can raise that cottage. Try the Royal Observer Corps frequency."



When the cottage had passed out of sight, the radio operator called: "No response, sir."



"All right, Sparks," the captain said. "It wasn't important."



The crew of the coastguard cutter sat below decks in Aberdeen Harbour playing blackjack for halfpennies and musing on the feeblemindedness that seemed invariably to accompany high rank.



"Twist," said Jack Smith, who was more Scots than his name. Albert "Slim" Parish, a fat Londoner far from home, dealt him a jack. "Bust." Smith said.



Slim raked in his stake. "A penny-ha'penny," he said in mock wonder "I only hope I live to spend it."



Smith rubbed condensation off the inside of a porthole and peered out at the boats bobbing up and down in the harbour. "The way the skipper's panicking. you'd think we were going to bloody Berlin, not Storm Island."



"Didn't you know? We're the spearhead of the Allied invasion." Slim turned over a ten, dealt himself a king and said, "Pay twenty-ones."



Smith said. "What is this guy, anyway, a deserter? If you ask me, it's a job for the military police, not us."



Slim shuffled the pack. "I'll tell you what he is-an escaped prisoner of war."



Jeers.



"All right, don't listen to me. But when we pick him up, just take note of his accent." He put the cards down. "Listen, what boats go to Storm Island?"



"Only the grocer," someone said.



"So the only way he can get back to the mainland is on the grocer's boat. The military police just have to wait for Charlie's regular trip to the island, and pick him up when he steps off the boat at this end. There's no reason for us to be sitting here, waiting to weigh anchor and shoot over there at the speed of light the minute the weather clears, unless..." He paused melodramatically. "Unless he's got some other means of getting off the island."