Ken Follett - Eye Of The Needle

Flying-Oflficer Longman said, "Sir?"

"Longman?"

"What do we do if we see this U-boat?"

"Strafe it, of course. Drop a few grenades. Cause trouble."

"But we're flying fighters, sir there's not much we can do to stop a U-boat. That's a job for battleships, isn't it?"

Blenkinsop sighed. "As usual, those of you who can think of better ways to win the war are invited to write directly to Mr Winston Churchill, number 10 Downing Street, London South-West-One. Now, are there any questions, as opposed to stupid criticisms?" There were no questions.

The later years of the war had produced a different kind of RAF officer, Bloggs thought, as he sat on a soft chair in the scramble room, close to the fire, listening to the rain drumming on the tin roof, and intermittently dozing. The Battle of Britain pilots had seemed incorrigibly cheerful, with their undergraduate slang, their perpetual drinking, their tirelessness and their cavalier disregard of the flaming death they faced up to every day. That schoolboy heroism had not been enough to carry them through subsequent years, as the war dragged on in places far from home, and the emphasis shifted from the dashing individuality of aerial dogfighting to the mechanical drudgery of bombing missions. They still drank and talked in jargon but they appeared older, harder, more cynical; there was nothing in them now of Tom Brown's Schooldays. Bloggs recalled what he had done to that poor common-or-garden housebreaker in the police cells at Aberdeen, and he realised: It's happened to us all.

They were very quiet. They sat all around him: some dozing, like himself; others reading books or playing board games. A bespectacled navigator in a corner was learning Russian.

As Bloggs surveyed the room with half-closed eyes, another pilot came in, and he thought immediately that this one had not been aged by the war. He had an old-fashioned wide grin and fresh face that looked as if it hardly needed shaving more than once a week. He wore his jacket open and carried his helmet. He made a beeline for Bloggs. "Detective-Inspector Bloggs?"

"That's me."

"Jolly rood show. I'm your pilot, Charles Calder."

"Fine." Bloggs shook hands.

"The kite's all ready, and the engine's as sweet as a bird. She's an amphibian, I suppose you know."

"Yes."

"Jolly good show. We'll land on the sea, taxi in to about ten yards from the shore, and put you off in a dinghy."

"Then you wait for me to come back."

"Indeed. Well, all we need now is the weather."

"Yes. Look, Charles, I've been chasing this fellow all over the country for six days and nights, so I'm catching up on my sleep while I've got the chance. You won't mind."

"Of course not!" The pilot sat down and produced a thick book from under his jacket. "Catching up on my education," he said. "War and Peace."

Bloggs said, "Jolly good show," and closed his eyes.

Percival Godliman and his uncle, Colonel Terry, sat side by side in the map room, drinking coffee and tapping the ash of their cigarettes into a fire bucket on the floor between them. Godliman was repeating himself. "I can't think of anything more we can do," he said.

"So you said."

"The corvette is already there, and the fighters are only a few minutes away, so the sub will come under fire as soon as she shows herself above the surface."

"If she's seen."

"The corvette will land a party as soon as possible. Bloggs will be there soon after that, and the Coastguard will bring up the rear."

"And none of them can be sure to get there in time."

"I know," Godliman said wearily. "We've done all we can, but is it enough?"

Terry lit another cigarette. "What about the inhabitants of the island?"

"Oh, yes. There are only two houses there. There's a sheep farmer and his wife in one-they have a young child-and an old shepherd lives in the other. The shepherd's got a radio-Royal Observer Corps-but we can't raise him… he probably keeps the set switched to Transmit. He's old."

"The farmer sounds promising," Terry said. "If he's a bright fellow he might even stop your spy."

Godliman shook his head. "The poor chap's in a wheelchair."

"Dear God, we don't get much luck, do we?"

"No," said Godliman. "Die Nadel seems to have cornered the market."

Lucy was becoming quite calm. The feeling crept over her gradually, like the icy spread of an anaesthetic, deadening her emotions and sharpening her wits. The times when she was momentarily paralysed by the thought that she was sharing a house with a murderer became fewer, and she was possessed by a cool-headed watchfulness that surprised her.

As she went about the household chores, sweeping around Henry as he sat in the living room reading a novel, she wondered how much he had noticed of the change in her feelings. He was very observant: he didn't miss much and there had been a definite wariness, if not outright suspicion, in that confrontation over the jeep. He must have known she was shaken by something. On the other hand, she had been upset before he left over Jo discovering them in bed together… he might think that that was all that had been wrong.

Still, she had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what was in her mind but preferred to pretend that everything was all right.

She hung her laundry to dry on a clothes-horse in the kitchen. "I'm sorry about this," she said, "but I can't wait forever for the rain to stop."

He looked uninterestedly at the clothes. "That's all right," he said, and went back into the living room.

Scattered among the wet garments was a complete set of clean, dry clothes for Lucy.

For lunch she made a vegetable pie using an austerity recipe. She called Jo and Faber to the table and served up.

David's gun was propped in a corner of the kitchen. "I don't like having a loaded gun in the house," she said.

"I'll take it outside after lunch. The pie is good."

"I don't like it," Jo said.

Lucy picked up the gun and put it on top of the Welsh dresser. "I suppose it's all right as long as it's out of Jo's reach."

Jo said, "When I grow up I'm going to shoot Germans."

"This afternoon I want you to have a sleep," Lucy told him. She went into the living room and took one of David's sleeping pills from the bottle in the cupboard. Two of the pills were a heavy dose for a 12-stone man, so one quarter of one pill should be just enough to make a 3-stone boy sleep in the afternoon. She put the pill on her chopping block and halved it, then halved it again. She put a quarter on a spoon, crushed it with the back of another spoon and stirred the powder into a small glass of milk. She gave the glass to Jo. "I want you to drink every last drop." Faber watched the whole thing without comment.

After lunch she settled Jo on the sofa with a pile of books. He could not read, of course, but he had heard the stories read aloud so many times that he knew them by heart, and he could turn the pages of the books, looking at the pictures and reciting from memory the words on the page.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked Faber.

"Real coffee?" he said, surprised.

"I've got a little hoard."

"Yes, please!"

He watched her making it. She wondered if he was afraid she might try to give him sleeping pills too. She could hear Jo's voice from the next room: "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home', called out Pooh very loudly. 'No!,' said a voice… and he laughed heartily, as he always did at that joke." Oh, God, Lucy thought, please don't let Jo be hurt… She poured the coffee and sat opposite Faber. He reached across the table and held her hand. For a while they sat in silence, sipping coffee and listening to the rain and Jo's voice. "Dow long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "'About a week, I should think.'

"'But I can't stay here for a week!'"