It did not seem to matter now.

24.

ERWIN ROMMEL KNEW FROM THE START THAT HE WAS going to quarrel with Heinz Guderian. going to quarrel with Heinz Guderian.

General Guderian was exactly the kind of aristocratic Prussian officer Rommel hated. He had known him for some time. They had both, in their early days, commanded the Goslar Jaeger Battalion, and they had met again during the Polish campaign. When Rommel left Africa he had recommended Guderian to succeed him, knowing the battle was lost; the maneuver was a failure because at that time Guderian had been out of favor with Hitler and the recommendation was rejected out of hand.

The general was, Rommel felt, the kind of man who put a silk handkerchief on his knee to protect the crease in his trousers while he sat drinking in the Herrenklub Herrenklub. He was an officer because his father had been an officer and his grandfather had been rich. Rommel, the schoolteacher's son who had risen from lieutenant colonel to field marshal in only four years, despised the military caste of which he had never been a member.

Now he stared across the table at the general, who was sipping brandy appropriated from the French Rothschilds. Guderian and his sidekick, General von Geyr, had come to Rommel's headquarters at La Roche Guyon in northern France to tell him how to deploy his troops. Rommel's reactions to such visits ranged from impatience to fury. In his view the General Staff were there to provide reliable intelligence and regular supplies, and he knew from his experience in Africa that they were incompetent at both tasks.

Guderian had a cropped, light-colored moustache, and the corners of his eyes were heavily wrinkled so that he always appeared to be grinning at you. He was tall and handsome, which did nothing to endear him to a short, ugly, balding man-as Rommel thought of himself. He seemed relaxed, and any German general who would relax at this stage of the war was surely a fool. The meal they had just finished-local veal and wine from farther south-was no excuse.

Rommel looked out of the window and watched the rain dripping from the lime trees into the courtyard while he waited for Guderian to begin the discussion. When he finally spoke it was clear the general had been thinking about the best way to make his point, and had decided to approach it sideways.

"In Turkey," he began, "the British Ninth and Tenth armies, with the Turkish army, are grouping at the border with Greece. In Yugoslavia the partisans are also concentrating. The French in Algeria are preparing to invade the Riviera. The Russians appear to be mounting an amphibious invasion of Sweden. In Italy the Allies are ready to march on Rome. There are smaller signals-a general kidnapped in Crete, an intelligence officer murdered at Lyon, a radar post attacked at Rhodes, an aircraft sabotaged with abrasive grease and destroyed at Athens, a commando raid on Sagvaag, an explosion in the oxygen factory at Boulogne-sur-Seine, a train derailed in the Ardennes, a petrol dump fired at Boussens...I could go on. The picture is clear. In occupied territories there is ever-increasing sabotage and treachery; on our borders, we see preparations for invasion everywhere. None of us doubts that there will be a major allied offensive this summer, and we can be equally sure that all this skirmishing is intended to confuse us about where the attack will come."

The general paused. The lecture, delivered in schoolmaster style, was irritating Rommel, and he took the opportunity to interrupt. "This is why we have a General Staff: to digest such information, evaluate enemy activity, and forecast his future moves."

Guderian smiled indulgently. "We must also be aware of the limitations of such crystal-gazing. You have your ideas about where the attack will come, I'm sure. We all do. Our strategy must take into account the possibility that our guesses are wrong."

Rommel now saw where the general's roundabout argument was leading, and he suppressed the urge to shout his disagreement before the conclusion was stated.

"You have four armored divisions under your command," Guderian continued. "The 2nd Panzers at Amiens, the 116th at Rouen, the 21st at Caen, and the 2nd SS at Toulouse. General von Geyr has already proposed to you that these should be grouped well back from the coast, all together, ready for fast retaliation at any point. Indeed, this stratagem is a principle of OKW policy. Nevertheless, you have not only resisted von Geyr's suggestion, but have in fact moved the 21st right up to the Atlantic coast-"

"And the other three must be moved to the coast as soon as possible," Rommel burst out. "When will you people learn? The Allies control the air The Allies control the air. Once the invasion is launched there will be no further major movements of armor. Mobile operations are no longer possible. If your precious panzers are in Paris when the Allies land on the coast, they will stay stay in Paris-pinned down by the RAF-until the Allies march along the Boulevard St-Michel. I in Paris-pinned down by the RAF-until the Allies march along the Boulevard St-Michel. I know know-they've done it to me. Twice." He paused to draw breath. "To group our armor as a mobile reserve is to make it useless. There will be no counterattack. The invasion must be met on the beaches, when it is most vulnerable, and pushed back into the sea."

The flush receded from his face as he began to expound his own defensive strategy. "I have created underwater obstacles, strengthened the Atlantic Wall, laid minefields and driven stakes into every meadow that might be used to land aircraft behind our lines. All my troops are engaged in digging defenses whenever they're not actually training.

"My armored divisions must be moved to the coast. The OKW reserve should be redeployed in France. The Ninth and Tenth SS divisions have to be brought back from the Eastern Front. Our whole strategy must be to prevent the Allies from securing a beachhead, because once they achieve that, the battle is lost...perhaps even the war."

Guderian leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in that infuriating half-grin. "You want us to defend the European coastline from Tromso in Norway all around the Iberian peninsula to Rome. Where shall we get the armies from?"

"That question should have been asked in 1938," Rommel muttered.

There was an embarra.s.sed silence after this remark, which was all the more shocking coming from the notoriously apolitical Rommel.

Von Geyr broke the tension. "Where do you you believe the attack will come from, Field Marshal?" believe the attack will come from, Field Marshal?"

Rommel had been waiting for this. "Until recently I was convinced of the Pas de Calais theory. However, last time I was with the Fuehrer I was impressed by his arguments in favor of Normandy. I am also impressed by his instinct, and even more by its record of accuracy. Therefore I believe our panzers should be deployed primarily along the Normandy coast, with perhaps one division at the mouth of the Somme-this last supported by forces outside my group."

Guderian shook his head, "No, no, no no. It's far too risky."

"I'm prepared to take this argument to Hitler," Rommel threatened.

"Then that's what you will have to do," Guderian said, "because I won't go along with your plan unless-"

"Well?" Rommel was surprised that the general's position might be qualified.

Guderian shifted in his seat, reluctant to give a concession to so stubborn an antagonist as Rommel. "You may know that the Fuehrer is waiting for a report from an unusually effective agent in England."

"I remember." Rommel nodded. "Die Nadel."

"Yes. He has been a.s.signed to a.s.sess the strength of the First United States Army Group under Patton's command in the eastern part of England. If he finds-as I am certain he will-that that army is large, strong, and ready to move, then I shall continue to oppose you. However, if he finds that FUSAG is somehow a bluff-a small army masquerading as an invasion force-then I shall concede that you are right, and you shall have your panzers. Will you accept that compromise?"

Rommel nodded his large head in a.s.sent. "It depends on Die Nadel, then."

Part Five

25.

THE COTTAGE WAS TERRIBLY SMALL, LUCY REALIZED quite suddenly. As she went about her morning ch.o.r.es-lighting the stove, making porridge, tidying up, dressing Jo-the walls seemed to press in on her. After all, it was only four rooms linked by a little pa.s.sage with a staircase; you couldn't move without b.u.mping into someone else. If you stood still and listened you could hear what everyone was doing: Henry was running water into the washbasin, David sliding down the stairs, Jo chastising his teddy bear in the living room. Lucy would have liked some time on her own before meeting people; time to let the events of the night settle into her memory, recede from the forefront of her thoughts so that she could act normally without a conscious effort. quite suddenly. As she went about her morning ch.o.r.es-lighting the stove, making porridge, tidying up, dressing Jo-the walls seemed to press in on her. After all, it was only four rooms linked by a little pa.s.sage with a staircase; you couldn't move without b.u.mping into someone else. If you stood still and listened you could hear what everyone was doing: Henry was running water into the washbasin, David sliding down the stairs, Jo chastising his teddy bear in the living room. Lucy would have liked some time on her own before meeting people; time to let the events of the night settle into her memory, recede from the forefront of her thoughts so that she could act normally without a conscious effort.

She guessed she was not going to be good at deception. It did not come naturally to her. She had no experience at it. She tried to think of another occasion in her life when she had deceived someone close to her, and she could not. It was not that she lived by such lofty principles-the thought thought of lying did not trouble her so much. It was mostly that she had just never had reason for dishonesty. of lying did not trouble her so much. It was mostly that she had just never had reason for dishonesty.

David and Jo sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat. David was silent, Jo talked nonstop just for the pleasure of making words. Lucy did not want food.

"Aren't you eating?" David asked casually.

"I've had some." There-her first lie. It wasn't so bad.

The storm made the claustrophobia worse. The rain was so heavy that Lucy could hardly see the barn from the kitchen window. One felt even more shut in when to open a door or window was a major operation. The low, steel-grey sky and the wisps of mist created a permanent twilight. In the garden the rain ran in rivers between the rows of potato plants, and the herb patch was a shallow pond. The sparrow's nest under the disused outhouse roof had been washed away and the birds flitted in and out of the eaves, panicking.

Lucy heard Henry coming down the stairs, and she felt better. For some reason, she was quite sure that he was very good at deception.

"Good morning!" Faber said heartily. David, sitting at the table in his wheelchair, looked up and nodded pleasantly. Lucy busied herself at the stove. There was guilt written all over her face, Faber noted, and he groaned inwardly. But David did not seem to notice his wife's expression. Faber began to think that David was rather obtuse...at least about his wife....

Lucy said, "Sit down and have some breakfast."

"Thank you very much."

David said, "Can't offer to take you to church, I'm afraid. Hymn-singing on the wireless is the best we can do."

Faber realized it was Sunday. "Are you church-going people?"

"No," David said. "You?"

"No."

"Sunday is much the same as any other day for farmers," David continued. "I'll be driving over to the other end of the island to see my shepherd. You could come, if you feel up to it."

"I'd like to," Faber told him. It would give him a chance to reconnoiter. He would need to know the way to the cottage where the transmitter was. "Would you like me to drive you?"

David looked at him sharply. "I can manage quite well." There was a strained moment of silence. "In this weather, the road is just a memory. We'll be a lot safer with me at the wheel."

"Of course." Faber began to eat.

"It makes no difference to me," David persisted. "I don't want you to come if you think it would be too much-"

"Really, I'd be glad to."

"Did you sleep all right? It didn't occur to me you might still be tired. I hope Lucy didn't keep you up too late."

Faber willed himself not to look at Lucy, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that she was suddenly flushed. "I slept all day yesterday," he said, trying to fix David's eyes with his own.

It was no use. David was looking at his wife. He knew. She turned her back.

David would be hostile now, and antagonism was part way to suspicion. It was not, as he'd decided before, dangerous, but it might be annoying.

David seemed to recover his composure quickly. He pushed his chair away from the table and wheeled himself to the back door. "I'll get the jeep out of the barn," he said, mostly to himself. He took an oilskin off a hook and put it over his head, then opened the door and rolled out.

In a few moments the door was open, the storm blew into the little kitchen, leaving the floor wet. When it shut, Lucy shivered and began to mop the water from the tiles.

Faber reached out and touched her arm.

"Don't," she said, nodding her head toward Jo.

"You're being silly," Faber told her.

"I think he knows," she said.

"But, if you reflect for a minute, you don't really care whether he knows or not, do you?"

"I'm supposed to."

Faber shrugged. The jeep's horn sounded impatiently outside. Lucy handed him an oilskin and a pair of Wellington boots.

"Don't talk about me," she said.

Faber put on the waterproof clothes and went to the front door. Lucy followed him, closing the kitchen door on Jo.

With his hand on the latch, Faber turned and kissed her, and she did what she wanted, she kissed him back, hard, then turned and went into the kitchen.

Faber ran through the rain, across a sea of mud, and jumped into the jeep beside David, who pulled away immediately.

The vehicle had been specially adapted for the legless man to drive. It had a hand throttle, automatic gearshift and a handle on the rim of the wheel to enable the driver to steer one-handed. The folded-up wheelchair slid into a special compartment behind the driver's seat. There was a shotgun in a rack above the windscreen.

David drove competently. He had been right about the road; it was no more than a strip of heath worn bare by the jeep's tires. The rain pooled in the deep ruts. The car slithered about in the mud. David seemed to enjoy it. There was a cigarette between his lips, and he wore an incongruous air of bravado. Perhaps, Faber thought, this was his subst.i.tute for flying.

"What do you do when you're not fishing?" he said around the cigarette.

"Civil servant," Faber told him.

"What sort of work?"

"Finance. I'm just a cog in the machine."

"Treasury?"

"Mainly."

"Interesting work?" he persisted.

"Fairly." Faber summoned up the energy to invent a story. "I know a bit about how much a given piece of engineering ought to cost, and I spend most of my time making sure the taxpayer isn't being overcharged."

"Any particular sort of engineering?"

"Everything from paper clips to aircraft engines."

"Ah, well. We all contribute to the war effort in our own way."

It was, of course, an intentionally snide remark, and David would naturally have no idea why Faber did not resent it. "I'm too old to fight," Faber said mildly.

"Were you in the first lot?"

"Too young."

"A lucky escape."

"Doubtless."

The track ran quite close to the cliff edge, but David did not slow down. It crossed Faber's mind that he might want to kill them both. He reached for a grab handle.

"Am I going too fast for you?" David asked.

"You seem to know the road."

"You look frightened."

Faber ignored that, and David slowed down a little, apparently satisfied that he had made some kind of point.

The island was fairly flat and bare, Faber observed. The ground rose and fell slightly, but as yet he had seen no hills. The vegetation was mostly gra.s.s, with some ferns and bushes but few trees: there was little protection from the weather. David Rose's sheep must be hardy, Faber thought.