Jack Higgins - Flight of Eagles

He moved to the door and opened it. I said, ‘Will there be a next time?’

‘As I said, Twenty-one uses people for special situations where they fit in. Who knows?’ For a moment he looked serious. ‘They turned you down, but that was from the flashy bit. The uniform, the beret, the badge that says: Who Dares Wins.’

‘But they won’t let me go?’

‘I’m afraid not. Take care,’ and he went out.

He was accurate enough. I went through a totally sterile period, then numerous jobs, college, university, marriage, a successful teaching career and an equally successful writing career. It was only when the Irish Troubles in Ulster really got seriously going in the early seventies that I heard from Wilson again after I’d written a successful novel about the situation. He was by then a full colonel, ostensibly in the Royal Engineers when I met him in uniform, although I doubted it.

We sat in the bar of an exclusive hotel outside Leeds and he toasted my success in champagne. ‘You’ve done very well, old chap. Great book and so authentic.’

‘I’m glad you liked it.’

‘Not like these things written by television reporters and the like. Very superficial, whereas you – well, you really understand the Irish, but then you would. I mean, an Orange Prod, but with Catholic connections. Very useful that.’

I was aware of a sense of déjà vu, Berlin all over again.

I said carefully, ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing too much. You’re doing an appearance in Dublin next week, book signings, television?’

‘So?’

‘It would be very useful if you would meet one or two people for us.’

I said, ‘Nearly twenty years ago, I met someone for you in Berlin and nearly got my head blown off.’

‘Another side to that. As I recall, it was the other chap who took the flak.’ He smiled. ‘Interesting that. It never gave you a problem, just like the Russians.’

‘They’d have done worse to me,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t have joined.’ I took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘What am I supposed to do, repeat the performance, only in the Liffey this time instead of the Spree?’

‘Not at all. No rough stuff. Intermediary, that’s you, old chap. Just speak to a few people, that’s all.’

I thought about it, aware of a certain sense of excitement. ‘You’ve forgotten that I did my ten years in the Army Reserve and that ended some time ago.’

‘Of course it did, but you did sign the Official Secrets Act when you joined Twenty-one.’

‘Which threw me out.’

‘Yes, well, as I said to you a long time ago, it’s more complicated than that.’

‘You mean, once in, never out?’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Konrad said that to me in Berlin. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him for some time.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Very active. So, I can take it you’ll co-operate?’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?’

He emptied his champagne glass. ‘No need to worry. Easy one, this.’

No rough stuff? Easy one, this? Five trips for the bastard, bombs, shooting, glass on the streets, too many bad Saturday nights in Belfast until that eventful day when men with guns in their pockets escorted me to the airport with the suggestion that I not come back. I didn’t, not for years, and interestingly enough, I didn’t hear again from Wilson, although in a manner of speaking, I did, through the obituary page in the Daily Telegraph, his photo staring out at me, only he was a brigadier, not a colonel and his name wasn’t Wilson.

Dawn came over the Cornish coast with a lot of mist, as I stood on the little balcony of the bedroom at the Hanged Man. A long night remembering. My wife still slept as I dressed quietly and went downstairs to the lounge bar. She’d been right, of course. The German connection was what I needed on this one and that meant Konrad Strasser. I hadn’t spoken to him for a few years. My uncle’s death, and my German aunt’s, had tended to sever the connection, but I had his number on what I called my essential card in my wallet. Damp but usable. I got it out and just then the kitchen door opened and Zec Acland looked in.

‘Up early.’

‘And you.’

‘Don’t sleep much at my age. Just made a pot of tea.’

‘I’ll be in shortly. I’d like to make a phone call. Hamburg. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on the bill.’

‘Hamburg. That’s interesting. Early there too.’

‘Another older man. He probably doesn’t sleep much either.’

Acland returned to the kitchen, I sat on a stool at the bar, found my card and dialled the number. As I remembered, Konrad had been born in 1920, which made him seventy-seven. His wife was dead, I knew that. A daughter in Australia.

The phone was picked up and a harsh voice said in German, ‘Now who in the hell is that?’

I said in English, ‘Your Irish cousin. How’s Hamburg this morning?’

He lived at Blankenese on the Elbe. ‘Fog on the river, a couple of boats moving out.’ He laughed, still calling me boy as he always had. ‘Good to hear from you, boy. No more of that damned Irish nonsense, I hope.’

‘No way. I’m an older guy, now, remember.’

‘Yes, I do and I also remember that when you first met your present wife and told me she was twenty-five years younger, I gave you a year.’

‘And that was fifteen years ago.’

‘So, even an old Gestapo hand can’t be right all the time.’

He broke into a terrible fit of coughing. I waited for him to stop, then said, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course. Blood and iron, that’s us Germans. Is your wife still Wonder Woman? Formula One, diving, flying planes?’

‘She was Wonder Woman yesterday,’ I said. ‘Saved our lives.’

‘Tell me.’

Which I did.

When I was finished he said, ‘My God, what a woman.’

‘An understatement. She can be infuriating, mind you.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

‘Absolutely marvellous.’

He was coughing again and finally said, ‘So, what’s it all about? A phone call out of the blue at the crack of dawn.’

‘I need your expertise. A rather astonishing story has come my way. I’ve got brothers, twins, born 1918, named Harry and Max Kelso. Father American, mother Baroness Elsa von Halder.’

He grunted. ‘Top Prussian aristocrats, the von Halders.’

‘The twins were split. Harry, the youngest, stayed in the States with his rich grandfather, who bankrolled the Baroness to return to Germany in 1930 with Max after her husband was killed in a car crash. Max, as the eldest, was automatically Baron von Halder.’

‘I’ve heard that name.’

‘You would. The Black Baron, a top Luftwaffe ace. The brother, Harry, was also a flyer. He flew for the Finns against Russia, then was a Yank in the RAF. Battle of Britain, the lot. More medals than you could shake a stick at.’

There was a silence, then, ‘What a story, so why isn’t it one of the legends of the Second World War?’

‘Because for some reason, it’s classified.’

‘After all these years?’

‘I’ve been talking to an old boy who’s past caring at eighty-eight so he’s given me a lot of facts, but the German side is virtually missing. I thought an old Gestapo hand might still have access to classified records. Of course, I’ll understand if you can’t.’

‘What do you mean if I can’t?’ He started to cough again. ‘I like it, I love it. It could give me a new lease of life, not that it matters. I’m on limited time. Lung cancer.’

God, but that hurt, for he was a man I’d liked more than most. I said, ‘Jesus, Konrad, leave it.’

‘Why should I? I’ll have such fun. I’m old, I’m dying, so I don’t care about classified information. What a joy. For once in a lengthy career in Intelligence, I can turn over the dirt and not give a damn. You’ve done me a favour. Now just let’s go over a few facts, whatever you know about the Black Baron, and then I’ll get on with it.’