The Eagle Has Flown

For my motherHenrietta Higgins Bell

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

London Belfast 1975

Berlin Lisbon London 1943

Belfast 1975

About the Author

Also By Jack Higgins

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

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 hadnt 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

At one oclock 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

1

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 wasnt particularly old, built on a high tide of Victorian prosperity like the tall houses surrounding it. St Martins 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. Ive 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 mausoleums 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, arent you?

She was American, that much was obvious. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Thats 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 flats just over the square there.

I know, she said. I still hesitated and she added, You wont regret it, believe me. Ive information of vital importance to you.

About what? I asked.

What really happened afterwards at Studley Constable. Oh, lots of things you dont know.

Which was enough. I took her arm and said, Right, lets 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.

Thats 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, Lets have that coat. Ill 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.

Thats interesting, I said. Ill make some tea, or would you prefer coffee?

She smiled again. Six months post doc at London University, Mr Higgins. Id 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. Im 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. Im 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. Id say his heart was never in it, but as the SS hanged him at Flossenburg concentration camp in April forty-five, well 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 whats your point?

Thirteen plus one makes fourteen, only there arent 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 didnt 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, thats why Im 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 Churchills instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.

Set Europe ablaze, thats 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.

Thats 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 wasnt 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. Its 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 thats 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 thered been an error.

Did he believe you?

I suppose so. I mean, why wouldnt he?

The same clerk?

No an older man.

I sat there thinking about it, feeling decidedly uneasy. Finally I said, Why dont 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 wasnt 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 wouldnt want this to come out, not even now.

Thats what I thought.

Can I hang on to it for a while?

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

A sudden decision?

She went and got her raincoat. Thats right. Ive decided Id rather be back in my own country.

Worried? I asked.

Im probably being hypersensitive, but sure. Ill pick the file up tomorrow afternoon. Say three oclock 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 hell be now, but lively with it.

Well, then. She smiled again. Ill see you tomorrow afternoon.

The Eagle Has Flown - Jack Higgins

The Eagle Has Flown

Contents

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