Ken Follett - Eye Of The Needle

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.

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.