Night of the Fox. Jack Higgins
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when one considered the time bomb carefully placed in the false bottom of the briefcase. He had told the pilot at Rastenburg airfield to be ready for a quick turnaround and his fingers trembled as he lit a cigarette.
The SS driver and guard in front stared woodenly ahead, and as time passed, Koenig’s nervousness increased. There were minefields on either side in the gloomy woods, electric fences, guards patrolling everywhere with savage dogs and three gates to pass through to reach the inner compound. Still, time to arm the bomb. Once done, it would give him exactly thirty minutes, they had told him.
He reached for the lock on the left-hand strap of the briefcase and depressed it. There was an immediate and very powerful explosion which killed Koenig and the two guards instantly and blew the car apart.
Hitler was beside himself with rage, pacing up and down in the map room. ‘Again and yet again they try.’ He turned on Rattenhuber. ‘And you, Oberführer? What about you? Sworn to protect my personal safety.’
‘My Führer,’ Rattenhuber stammered. ‘What can I say?’
‘Nothing!’ Hitler stormed and turned on the rest of them. ‘You say nothing of use to me – not any of you.’
In the shocked silence, it was Himmler who spoke, his voice dry and precise. ‘That there has been negligence here is true, my Führer, but surely we see further proof, in the failure of this dastardly attempt, of the certainty of your own destiny. Further proof of Germany’s inevitable victory under your inspired guidance.’
Hitler’s eyes blazed, his head went back. ‘As always, Reichsführer, you see. The only one who does.’ He turned on the others. ‘Get out, all of you. I wish to talk to the Reichsführer alone.’
They went without a murmur, Goebbels the last one to leave. Hitler stood staring down at the map desk, hands clasped behind him. ‘In what way may I serve my Führer?’ Himmler asked.
‘There is a plot, am I not right?’ Hitler said. ‘A general conspiracy to destroy me, and this Captain Koenig was simply an agent?’
‘Not so much a general conspiracy as a conspiracy of generals, my Führer.’
Hitler turned sharply. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Oh, yes, but proof – that is something else.’
Hitler nodded. ‘Koenig was an aide of General Olbricht. Is Olbricht one of those you suspect?’ Himmler nodded. ‘And the others?’
‘Generals Stieff, Wagner, von Hase, Lindemann. Several more, all being closely watched.’
Hitler stayed remarkably cool. ‘Traitors each and every one. No firing squad. A noose each when the time comes. No one higher, though? It would seem our field marshals are loyal at least.’
‘I wish I could confirm that, my Führer, but there is one who is heavily suspect. I would be failing in my duty not to tell you.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Rommel.’
Hitler smiled a ghastly smile that was almost one of triumph, turned and walked away and turned again, still smiling. ‘I think I expected it. Yes, I’m sure I did. So, the Desert Fox wishes to play games.’
‘I’m almost certain of it.’
‘The people’s hero,’ Hitler said. ‘We must handle him carefully, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Or outfox him, my Führer,’ Himmler said softly.
‘Outfox him. Outfox the Desert Fox.’ Hitler smiled delightedly. ‘Yes, I like that, Reichsführer. I like that very much indeed.’
Hugh Kelso slept until noon and when he awakened, he was sick. He turned over in the violently pitching life raft and pulled down the zip of the entrance flap. His heart sank. There was nothing but sea, the life raft twisting and turning on the angry waves. The sky was black, heavy with rain and the wind was gusting 5 or 6, he could tell that. Worst of all, there wasn’t a hint of land anywhere. He was well out in the English Channel, so much was obvious. If he drifted straight across, wasn’t picked up at all, he’d hit the coast of France, possibly the Cherbourg Peninsula. Below that, in the Gulf of St Malo, were the Channel Islands. Alderney, Guernsey and Jersey. He didn’t know much about them except that they were British and occupied by the enemy. He was not likely to be carried as far south as that, though.
He got the Very light out, and fired an orange distress flare. There was seldom any German naval traffic in the Channel during daylight. They tended to keep to the inshore run behind their minefields. He fired another flare and then water cascaded in through the flap and he hurriedly zipped it up. There were some field rations in the emergency kit. He tried to eat one of the dried fruit blocks and was violently sick and his leg was on fire again. Hurriedly, he got another morphine ampule and injected himself. After a while, he pillowed his head on his hands and slept again.
Outside, the sea lifted as the afternoon wore on. It started to get dark soon after five o’clock. By that time the wind was blowing sou’westerly, turning him away from the French coast and the Cherbourg Peninsula so that by six o’clock he was ten miles to the west of the Casquets Light off the island of Alderney. And then the wind veered again, pushing him down along the outer edge of the Gulf of St Malo toward Guernsey.
Kelso was aware of none of these things. He awakened around seven o’clock with a high temperature, washed his face with a little water to cool it, was sick again and dropped into something approaching a coma.
In London, Dougal Munro was working at his desk, the slight scratching of his pen the only sound in the quiet of the room. There was a knock at the door and Jack Carter limped in with a folder in one hand. He put it down in front of Munro.
‘Latest list from Slapton, sir.’
‘Anything on Kelso?’
‘Not a thing, sir, but they’ve got every available ship out there in the bay looking for the missing bodies.’
Dougal Munro got up and moved to the window. The wind moaned outside, hurling rain against the pane. He shook his head and said softly, ‘God help sailors at sea on a night like this.’
As commander of Army Group B, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was responsible for the Atlantic Wall defenses, his sole task to defeat any Allied attempt to land in northern France. Since taking command in January of 1944 he had strengthened the coastal defenses to an incredible degree, tramping the beaches, visiting every strongpoint, impressing his own energetic presence on everyone from divisional commanders to the lowliest private.
His headquarters seemed permanently on the move so that no one could be sure where he was from one day to the next. He had an uncomfortable habit of turning up in his familiar black Mercedes accompanied only by his driver and his most trusted aide from Afrika Korps days, Major Konrad Hofer.
On the evening of that fateful day at about the time Hugh Kelso was somewhere in the general area of the Casquets Light, west of Alderney, the field marshal was sitting down to an early dinner with the officers of the 21st Parachute Regiment in a chateau at Campeaux some ten miles from St Lo in Normandy.
His primary reason for being there was sound enough. The High Command, and the Führer himself, believed that the invasion, when it came, would take place in the area of the Pas de Calais. Rommel disagreed and had made it clear that if he were Eisenhower, he would strike for Normandy. None of this had done anything for his popularity among the people who counted at OKW, High Command of the Armed Forces, in Berlin. Rommel didn’t give a damn about that anymore. The war was lost. The only thing that was uncertain was how long it would take.
Which brought him to the second reason for being in Normandy. He was involved in a dangerous game and it paid to keep on the move, for since taking command of Army Group B he had renewed old friendships with General von