The Eagle Has Flown. Jack Higgins
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against an old-fahioned mirror behind it. The walls were whitewashed and covered with bullfighting posters. The bartender, squat and ugly with one white eye, wore an apron and soiled shirt and sat at a high stool reading a newspaper. Four other men played poker at another table, swarthy, fierce-looking gypsies. A younger man leaned against the wall and fingered a guitar.
The rest of the place was empty except for Devlin who sat at a table against the far wall reading a small book, a glass of beer at his hand. The door creaked open and Berger stepped in, Eggar at his back. The guitarist stopped playing, and all conversation died as Berger stood just inside the door, death come to visit them. Berger moved past the men who were playing cards. Eggar went closer as well, standing to the left.
Devlin glanced up, smiling amiably and picked up the glass of beer in his left hand. ‘Liam Devlin?’ Berger asked.
‘And who might you be?’
‘I am Sturmbannführer Horst Berger of the Gestapo.’
‘Jesus and why didn’t they send the Devil? I’m on reasonable terms there.’
‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ Berger told him. ‘I’m not impressed.’
Devlin smiled again. ‘I get that all the time, son.’
‘I must ask you to come with us.’
‘And me only halfway through my book. The Midnight Court and in Irish. Would you believe I found it on a stall in the flea market only last week?’
‘Now!’ Berger said.
Devlin drank some more beer. ‘You remind me of a medieval fresco I saw on a church in Donegal once. People running in terror from a man in a hood. Everyone he touched got the Black Death, you see.’
‘Eggar!’ Berger commanded.
Devlin fired through the table top, chipping the wall beside the door. Eggar tried to get the pistol out of his pocket. The Walther Devlin had been holding on his knee appeared above the table now and he fired again, shooting Eggar through the right hand. The police attaché cried out, falling against the wall and one of the gypsies grabbed for his gun as he dropped it.
Berger’s hand went inside his jacket, reaching for the Mauser he carried in a shoulder holster there. Devlin tossed the beer in his face and upended the table against him, the edge catching the German’s shins so that he staggered forward. Devlin rammed the muzzle of the Walther into his neck and reached inside Berger’s coat, removing the Mauser which he tossed on to the bar.
‘Present for you, Barbosa.’ The barman grinned and picked the Mauser up. The gypsies were on their feet, two of them with knives in their hands. ‘Lucky for you you picked on the sort of place where they don’t call the peelers,’ Devlin said. ‘A real bad lot, these fellas. Even the man in the hood doesn’t count for much with them. Barbosa there used to meet him most afternoons in the bullrings in Spain. That’s where he got the horn in the eye.’
The look on Berger’s face was enough. Devlin slipped the book into his pocket, stepped around him, holding the Walther against his leg and reached for Eggar’s hand. ‘A couple of knuckles gone. You’re going to need a doctor.’ He slipped the Walther into his pocket and turned to go.
Berger’s iron control snapped. He ran at him, hands outstretched. Devlin swayed, his right foot flicking forward, catching Berger under the left kneecap. As the German doubled over, he raised a knee in his face, sending him back against the bar. Berger pulled himself up, hanging on to the marble top and the gypsies started to laugh.
Devlin shook his head, ‘Jesus, son, but I’d say you should find a different class of work, the both of you,’ and he turned and went out.
When Schellenberg went into the small medical room, Eggar was sitting at the desk while the Legation’s doctor taped his right hand.
‘How is he?’ Schellenberg asked.
‘He’ll live.’ The doctor finished and cut off the end of the tape neatly. ‘He may well find it rather stiffer in future. Some knuckle damage.’
‘Can I have a moment?’ The doctor nodded and went out and Schellenberg lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I presume you found Devlin?’
‘Hasn’t the Herr General been told?’ Eggar asked.
‘I haven’t spoken to Berger yet. All I heard was that you’d come back in a taxi the worse for wear. Now tell me exactly what happened.’
Which Eggar did for as the pain increased, so did his anger. ‘He wouldn’t listen, Herr General. Had to do it his way.’
Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not your fault, Eggar. I’m afraid Major Berger sees himself as his own man. Time he was taught a lesson.’
‘Oh, Devlin took care of that,’ Eggar said. ‘When I last saw it, the Major’s face didn’t look too good.’
‘Really?’ Schellenberg smiled. ‘I didn’t think it could look worse.’
Berger stood stripped to the waist in front of the wash-basin in the small bedroom he had been allocated and examined his face in the mirror. A bruise had already appeared around his left eye and his nose was swollen. Schellenberg came in, closed the door and leaned against it.
‘So, you disobeyed my orders.’
Berger said, ‘I acted for the best. I didn’t want to lose him.’
‘And he was better than you are. I warned you about that.’
There was rage on Berger’s face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. ‘That little Irish swine. I’ll fix him next time.’
‘No you won’t because from now on I’ll handle things myself,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to report to the Reichsführer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.’
Berger swung round. ‘General Schellenberg, I protest.’
‘Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannführer,’ Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. ‘You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Führer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?’
‘Jawohl, Brigadeführer.’
‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘You’re remembering. Don’t forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.’ He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. ‘You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.’
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. ‘Bastard!’ he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o’clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the café was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called ‘Moonlight on the Highway’, a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ‘“Moonlight on the Highway”. I like that. One of Al Bowlly’s greatest numbers,’ he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England’s most popular crooner until his death.
‘Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?’ Devlin asked. ‘Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Schellenberg said.
‘I suppose it depends which side you’re on.’
Devlin moved into ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and Schellenberg said, ‘You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.’
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