A Game of Spies by John Altman Page B

be on the ground for less than a minute. The girl should be waiting there with Hobbs. There may be others with them: perhaps the fisherman, Brandt, perhaps even the OKW clerk.” He looked up, into Deacon’s eyes from a distance of about six inches. Oldfield was a gallows-thin man with muttonchop sideburns and a ruddy complexion. From this close distance, he smelled vigorously of tobacco. “Or perhaps a division or two of Hitler’s finest,” he said sourly.
    Deacon nodded briefly.
    â€œNow here”—Oldfield’s finger moved over the map—“is Brandt’s home, along a road called the Fischerweg, which runs in front of a row of little cottages. If things go wrong—terribly wrong—you might want to make a try for it. It’s less than a quarter mile from the landing zone. I’ll give you some information concerning the remnants of our underground network in Germany, such as it is. If worse comes to worst, you’ll take the girl into hiding. Then try to get over the border with her, wherever you can manage it. Although if it comes to that …”
    Deacon nodded again. He straightened, suddenly feeling considerably older than his twenty-six years. “When do I go?” he asked.
    â€œThree days. Try to get some rest before then, hm? You’ll want your eyes as sharp as possible for this one.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    â€œRemember,” Oldfield said. “No repercussions if you come back empty-handed.”
    Deacon smiled to himself. These strange times, he thought, had even taken a toll on an old bulldog such as Oldfield.
    â€œUncle Cecil,” he said. “I do believe you’re getting soft, in your old age.”
    On the way back to Bayswater, Deacon found his mind roaming.
    He thought for a time of his wife and his newborn son. Thinking of them was a luxury; he allowed himself exactly three minutes. Then he harrumphed, rearranging himself in the backseat of the Bentley, and forced his mind in a new direction. If he thought of his family for too long, he might find an excuse to change his mind about accepting the mission. And that would not do.
    He looked at the balding crown on the back of his driver’s head, thinking for a few empty seconds of nothing in particular; then his mind turned to the upcoming operation.
    If it had been a suicide mission, he would not have accepted it. He had responsibilities now, as his wife was so keen on pointing out. But it was not a suicide mission. Just damned close.
    He remembered his first meeting with Oldfield on the subject, a week before. His uncle had given it to him straight, as they had stood inside the swaying army surplus tent and inspected the prototype Lysander Mark III.
    â€œLately,” Oldfield said, “I’ve been thinking I was wrong in the head to work with Hobbs in the first place. But while I had him in my sight, I felt right enough about him. He has a way of putting people at ease. A skill he learned on the street, no doubt. Now that he’s gone, however, I’ve been wondering. He might be rotten to the core; and even if he’s not, he may prove incapable of doing what we need done.”
    Deacon had been looking over the plane as Oldfield had spoken. The Lysander had been modified with an external fuel tank holding 150 gallons, providing an endurance of eight hours’ flying time. A ladder had been fitted to the fuselage to allow quick access to and from the ground. All in all, the prototype had turned out brilliantly. Oldfield had mentioned that they would be doing up more of the little planes in this fashion, in case the war dragged on.
    â€œThis is an important one,” Oldfield continued. “Our intelligence on the Wehrmacht’s plans is sketchy at best. I’ve got a memo from Deuxième Bureau on my desk predicting a mid-March offensive against the Netherlands and Belgium, to be accompanied by air attacks on London and Paris. Then