Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,46

were on the lookout for spies, their everyday targets were French soldiers who’d escaped from the weakly guarded prisons. As a result, men got a harder time than women and men of military age such as Henderson could expect a thorough grilling.

After a fifteen-minute wait, during which less than half the queue in front of Henderson disappeared, a Mercedes limousine with a Nazi flag at the end of its long bonnet drew up alongside. Henderson got the horrible feeling that he was being called back to translate at some ghastly late-night meeting, but instead the back door was thrown open revealing Oberst

9 Ohlsen, the Deputy Commander of the Pas-de-Calais region.

‘Mr Boyle,’ the Oberst said warmly. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a short cut?’

Henderson nodded as he recognised the balding Oberst. He’d met him the previous Friday whilst translating at a meeting with a director of the French railways.

The Oberst thumped on the glass panel that separated the passenger compartment and ordered his driver to strap Henderson’s bike to the rear of the car. Henderson walked around to help the driver, but the Oberst ordered him brusquely inside the car.

The vehicle’s interior was panelled in walnut, with two comfortable chairs at the back and two pull-down seats facing the other way. Henderson settled in next to the Oberst, separated by a leather arm rest which flipped open to reveal two crystal decanters and a row of tumblers.

‘Drink?’ the Oberst asked.

Henderson was thirsty after a six-kilometre bike ride and needed cold water more than whisky or wine, but an opportunity to socialise with such a senior officer was a rarity so Henderson accepted a glass of red.

‘Heading home, Mr Boyle?’ the Oberst asked.

Henderson nodded. ‘A long day,’ he said. ‘At least my wife will have a meal ready.’

The driver pulled away and the engine of the huge limousine was so remote from the back seats that they could hear the click of German heels as the soldiers on the checkpoint saluted their deputy commander.

‘I envy you home cooking,’ the Oberst said. ‘It’s four months since I saw my wife.’

This comment made Henderson feel guilty. It had been more than four months since he’d seen his real wife back in England, and Maxine wasn’t the first woman he’d slept with during the interlude.

‘This beats the bike.’ Henderson smiled, spreading himself over the padded leather as the German raised his glass and made a toast.

‘Cooperation,’ the German said, and Henderson copied him.

‘It is actually a pleasant surprise to bump into you, Mr Boyle,’ the Oberst said. ‘Your translation at the meeting on Friday was immaculate and I’ve found that a good translator can make my life a lot easier.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Henderson said.

‘I’ve received orders from General Rufus today. He’s put me in charge of the overall planning for Operation Sea-lion.’

Henderson had nosed around and picked up details from documents he shouldn’t have seen, but he pretended to be mystified. ‘Sea-lion, Herr Oberst?’

‘The operation to invade England,’ Ohlsen explained. ‘The logistics are fearsome: eleven battalions, twenty thousand horses, eighteen thousand tanks, artillery pieces and god knows how many vehicles have to be transported across the English Channel on barges. The battle between the Luftwaffe and the Royal Air Force is going in our favour and Berlin demands that we’re ready to invade as soon as we control the skies.’

‘A task you can really sink your teeth into,’ Henderson said, as he wondered whether to ask a bold question. ‘Is there a target date set for the invasion?’

The Oberst smiled. ‘There’s no firm date, but once the destruction of the Royal Air Force is complete, the die will be cast.’

‘Before winter, I assume,’ Henderson said.

‘Of course.’ The Oberst nodded. ‘You need daylight and good weather for this kind of operation. It has to be before the end of September. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until next spring and who knows what fortifications the British will have built by then?’

‘Absolutely,’ Henderson agreed, as he drained the last of his wine.

‘Another?’ the German asked, but Henderson shook his head and the Oberst continued. ‘Anyhow, Mr Boyle, getting back to your excellent translation services. I actually dictated a memo to the translation department earlier today, requesting that you be permanently assigned to my office. Operation Sea-lion has absolute priority, which means that I’ll need a highly capable translator, rather than whatever incompetent the translation department decides to assign me.’

‘Well, Herr Oberst,’ Henderson smiled, ‘I’m flattered.’

*

Henderson kissed Maxine as he waltzed into the kitchen whistling the hymn All Things