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The Eagle Has Flown
Jack Higgins
The breathtaking sequel to the all-time classic, THE EAGLE HAS LANDED, reissued for a new generationThe greatest World War Two story of all time – is not over…By the end of 1943, all evidence of the abortive German attempt to assassinate Winston Churchill has been carefully buried in an unmarked grave in the Norfolk village of Studley Constable.But two of the most wanted ringleaders are still alive…In the fourth hard winter of war, British Intelligence pick up disturbing reports from Heinrich Himmler’s power base in Wewelsburg Castle. The mission is not yet accomplished. For the Fatherland, the Reichsfuhrer is demanding the Eagle’s return…
The Eagle Has Flown
For my motherHenrietta Higgins Bell
Contents
Title Page (#u51977f07-f1c8-5ddb-a217-d08606a0069c)
Dedication (#u66114da6-c527-56e2-93ee-81df8e2338c4)
Foreword
Preface
London Belfast 1975
1
Berlin Lisbon London 1943
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Belfast 1975
16
About the Author
Also By Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
FOREWORD (#u7ccd0126-16b1-56dc-a3b3-125870eb7d0b)
For years fans of my work in thousands of letters begged me to write a sequel to The Eagle Has Landed because of the enduring popularity of that book and particularly because of the enormous affection they all seem to have for Liam Devlin, the rogue Irishman in the IRA who was involved in the Churchill plot. Of course the real problem was that Steiner, the gallant German paratroop Colonel, had been shot dead at the end of the original story. I was visiting the Tower of London by chance and was shown where Rudolf Hess had been held prisoner, and I was surprised to learn that other German prisoners had been held there. All I knew at that point was that I would like to write about a prisoner in the Tower, but who would he be? The answer was like a bolt from the blue. Steiner hadn’t died. He had survived surgery, was imprisoned in the Tower, and they wanted him back in Berlin. And who better to take on the job than Liam Devlin. The fact that this would be my fiftieth novel made it a special occasion, and so the Eagle flew again.
Jack Higgins
June 1996
PREFACE (#u7ccd0126-16b1-56dc-a3b3-125870eb7d0b)
At one o’clock in the morning of Saturday, November 6, 1943, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS and Chief of State Police received a simple message: The Eagle has Landed. It meant that a small force of German paratroopers under the command of Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner, aided by IRA gunman, Liam Devlin, were at that moment safely in England and poised to snatch the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, from the Norfolk country house where he was spending a quiet weekend near the sea. By the end of the day, thanks to a bloody confrontation in the village of Studley Constable between American Rangers and the Germans, the mission was a failure, Liam Devlin apparently the only survivor. As for Kurt Steiner …
LONDON • BELFAST (#u7ccd0126-16b1-56dc-a3b3-125870eb7d0b)
1 (#u7ccd0126-16b1-56dc-a3b3-125870eb7d0b)
There was an Angel of Death on top of an ornate mausoleum in one corner, arms extended. I remember that well because someone was practising the organ and light drifted across the churchyard in coloured bands through stained-glass windows. The church wasn’t particularly old, built on a high tide of Victorian prosperity like the tall houses surrounding it. St Martin’s Square. A good address once. Now, just a shabby backwater in Belsize Park, but a nice, quiet area where a woman alone might walk down to the corner shop at midnight in safety and people minded their own business.
The flat at number thirteen was on the ground floor. My agent had borrowed it for me from a cousin who had gone to New York for six months. It was old-fashioned and comfortable and suited me fine. I was on the downhill slope of a new novel and needed to visit the Reading Room at the British Museum most days.
But that November evening, the evening it all started, it was raining heavily and just after six I passed through the iron gates and followed the path through the forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. In spite of my umbrella the shoulders of my trenchcoat were soaked, not that it bothered me. I’ve always liked the rain, the city at night, wet streets stretching into winter darkness, a peculiar feeling of freedom that it contains. And things had gone well that day with the work, the end was very definitely in sight.
The Angel of Death was closer now, shadowed in the half-light from the church, the two marble attendants on guard at the mausoleum’s bronze doors, everything as usual except that tonight, I could have sworn that there was a third figure and that it moved out of the darkness towards me.
For a moment I knew genuine fear and then, as it came into the light, I saw a young woman, quite small and wearing a black beret and soaked raincoat. She had a briefcase in one hand. The face was pale, the eyes dark and somehow anxious.
‘Mr Higgins? You are Jack Higgins, aren’t you?’
She was American, that much was obvious. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’
‘I must talk to you, Mr Higgins. Is there somewhere we could go?’
I hesitated, reluctant for all sorts of obvious reasons to take this any further and yet there was something quite out of the ordinary about her. Something not to be resisted.
I said, ‘My flat’s just over the square there.’
‘I know,’ she said. I still hesitated and she added, ‘You won’t regret it, believe me. I’ve information of vital importance to you.’
‘About what?’ I asked.
‘What really happened afterwards at Studley Constable. Oh, lots of things you don’t know.’
Which was enough. I took her arm and said, ‘Right, let’s get in out of this damn rain before you catch your death and you can tell me what the hell this is all about.’
The house interior had changed very little, certainly not in my flat where the tenant had stayed with a late Victorian decor, lots of mahogany furniture, red velvet curtains at the bow window and a sort of Chinese wallpaper in gold and green, heavily patterned with birds. Except for the central heating radiators, the only other concession to modern living was the kind of gas fire which made it seem as if logs burned brightly in a stainless steel basket.
‘That’s nice,’ she said and turned to face me, even smaller than I had thought. She held out her right hand awkwardly, still clutching the briefcase in the other. ‘Cohen,’ she said. ‘Ruth Cohen.’
I said, ‘Let’s have that coat. I’ll put it in front of one of the radiators.’
‘Thank you.’ She fumbled at her belt with one hand and I laughed and took the briefcase from her.
‘Here, let me.’ As I put it down on the table I saw that her initials were etched on the flap in black. The only difference was that it said Ph.D. at the end of it.
‘Ph.D.?’ I said.
She smiled slightly as she struggled out of the coat. ‘Harvard, modern history.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
She smiled again. ‘Six months’ post doc at London University, Mr Higgins. I’d very definitely prefer your tea.’
I went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle and made a tray ready. I lit a cigarette as I waited and turned to find her leaning on the doorway, arms folded.
‘Your thesis,’ I said. ‘For your doctorate. What was the subject?’
‘Certain aspects of the Third Reich in the Second World War.’
‘Interesting. Cohen – are you Jewish?’ I turned to make the tea.
‘My father was a German Jew. He survived Auschwitz and made it to the US, but died the year after I was born.’
I could think of no more than the usual inadequate response. ‘I’m sorry.’
She stared at me blankly for a moment, then turned and went back to the sitting room. I followed with the tray, placed it on a small coffee table by the fire and we sat opposite each other in wingback chairs.
‘Which explains your interest in the Third Reich,’ I said as I poured the tea.
She frowned and took the cup of tea I handed her. ‘I’m just an historian. No axe to grind. My particular obsession is with the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence. Why they were so good and why they were so bad at the same time.’
‘Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and his merry men?’ I shrugged. ‘I’d say his heart was never in it, but as the SS hanged him at Flossenburg concentration camp in April forty-five, we’ll never know.’
‘Which brings me to you,’ she said. ‘And your book The Eagle Has Landed.’
‘A novel, Dr Cohen,’ I said. ‘Pure speculation.’
‘At least fifty per cent of which is documented historical fact, you claim that yourself at the beginning of the book.’
She leaned forward, hands clenched on her knees, a kind of fierceness there. I said softly, ‘All right, so what exactly are you getting at?’
‘Remember how you found out about the affair in the first place?’ she said. ‘The thing that started you off?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The monument to Steiner and his men the villagers of Studley Constable had hidden under the tombstone in the churchyard.’
‘Remember what it said?’
‘Hier ruhen Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner und 13 Deutsche Fallschirmjäger gefallen am 6 November 1943.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Here lies Lieutenant Colonel Kurt Steiner and thirteen German paratroopers killed in action on sixth November, nineteen forty-three.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘Thirteen plus one makes fourteen, only there aren’t fourteen bodies in that grave. There are only thirteen.’
I stared at her incredulously. ‘How in the hell do you make that out?’
‘Because Kurt Steiner didn’t die that night on the terrace at Meltham House, Mr Higgins.’ She reached for the briefcase, had it open in a second and produced a brown manilla folder. ‘And I have the proof right here.’
Which very definitely called for Bushmills whiskey. I poured one and said, ‘All right, do I get to see it?’
‘Of course, that’s why I’m here, but first let me explain. Any study of Abwehr intelligence affairs during the Second World War constantly refers to the work of SOE, the Special Operations Executive set up by British Intelligence in 1940 on Churchill’s instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.’
‘Set Europe ablaze, that’s what the old man ordered,’ I said.
‘I was fascinated to discover that a number of Americans worked for SOE before America came into the war. I thought there might be a book in it. I arranged to come over here to do the research and a name that came up again and again was Munro – Brigadier Dougal Munro. Before the war he was an archaeologist at Oxford. At SOE he was head of Section D. What was commonly known as the dirty tricks department.’
‘I had heard of him,’ I said.
‘I did most of my research at the Public Records Office. As you know, few files dealing with intelligence matters are immediately available. Some are on a twenty-five-year hold, some fifty …’
‘And exceptionally sensitive material, a hundred years,’ I said.
‘That’s what I have here.’ She held up the folder. ‘A hundred-year-hold file concerning Dougal Munro, Kurt Steiner, Liam Devlin and others. Quite a story, believe me.’
She passed it across and I held it on my knees without opening it. ‘How on earth did you come by this?’
‘I checked out some files concerning Munro yesterday. There was a young clerk on duty on his own. Got careless, I guess. I found the file sandwiched in between two others, sealed, of course. You have to do your research on the premises at the Records Office, but since it wasn’t on the booking-out form, I slipped it into my briefcase.’
‘A criminal offence under the Defence of the Realm Act,’ I told her.
‘I know. I opened the seals as carefully as I could and read the file. It’s only a thirty-page résumé of certain events – certain astonishing events.’
‘And then?’
‘I photocopied it.’
