Jack Higgins: The Eagle Has Flown

‘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.’

‘The wonders of modern technology allow them to tell when that’s been done.’

‘I know. Anyway, I resealed the file and took it back this morning.’

‘And how did you manage to return it?’ I asked.

‘Checked out the same file yesterday. Took the Munro file back to the desk and told the duty clerk there’d been an error.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, why wouldn’t he?’

‘The same clerk?’

‘No – an older man.’

I sat there thinking about it, feeling decidedly uneasy. Finally I said, ‘Why don’t you make us some fresh tea while I have a go at this?’

‘All right.’

She took the tray and went out. I hesitated, then opened the file and started to read.

I wasn’t even aware that she was there, so gripped was I by the events recorded in that file. When I was finished, I closed it and looked up. She was back in the other chair watching me, a curiously intent look on her face.

I said, ‘I can understand the hundred-year hold. The powers that be wouldn’t want this to come out, not even now.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Can I hang on to it for a while?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Till tomorrow if you like. I’m going back to the States on the evening flight. Pan Am.’

‘A sudden decision?’

She went and got her raincoat. ‘That’s right. I’ve decided I’d rather be back in my own country.’

‘Worried?’ I asked.

‘I’m probably being hypersensitive, but sure. I’ll pick the file up tomorrow afternoon. Say three o’clock on my way to Heathrow?’

‘Fine.’ I put the file down on top of my coffee table.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, seven thirty, as I walked her to the door. I opened it and we stood for a moment, rain driving down hard.

‘Of course there is someone who could confirm the truth of that file,’ she said. ‘Liam Devlin. You said in your book he was still around, operating with the Provisional IRA in Ireland.’

‘Last I heard,’ I said. ‘Sixty-seven he’ll be now, but lively with it.’

‘Well, then.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’

She went down the steps and walked away through the rain, vanishing in the early evening mist at the end of the street.

I sat by the fire and read the file twice, then I went back into the kitchen, made myself some more tea and a chicken sandwich and sat at the table, eating the sandwich and thinking about things.

Extraordinary how events coming right out of the blue can change things. It had happened to me once before, the discovery of that hidden memorial to Steiner and his men in the churchyard at Studley Constable. I’d been researching an article for an historical magazine. Instead, I’d found something unlooked for that had changed the course of my entire life. Produced a book which had gone round the world from New York to Moscow, made me rich. Now this – Ruth Cohen and her stolen file, and I was filled with the same strange, tingling excitement.