Read Online Codename Eagle by Robert Rigby - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Rigby
Ads: Link
questions. Once more and then we’ll switch to civilian clothes over our own uniforms.”
“And the police vehicle?”
“We’ll use it once more, that’s all.”
“But we don’t have another car, sir.”
“Then we’ll get one if it becomes necessary!” Lau snapped. He sighed and looked at Steidle. “I’m sorry, Erich. It’s that bloody dog; the howling is beginning to drive me crazy.”
“It’s all right, sir,” Steidle said. “I understand.”
The officer stubbed out his cigarette in the tin lid that served as an ashtray and glanced around the room. It was grubby, untidy, and even more dilapidated in daylight than beneath the dull lamps of night.
The isolated position meant there was no electricity and no telephone. Apart from radio contact with headquarters, Lau and his team were cut off from the outside world. The operation was not proving as simple as he had anticipated.
“I still believe we’ll take Bernard today,” he said. “Then we can call in the plane and be away from here tomorrow night.” He checked his watch. “And if Bernard is coming home today he’ll be back by midday. Frenchmen never miss their lunch.”
TWELVE
R udi Werner was bored. Sitting straight-backed in an upright chair, he had read the spine of every book on the sagging shelves in the sitting room at the back of Max and Julia Bernard’s house. First he read them all silently and then he read them aloud, practising his far from perfect French.
He reached the final book on the bottom shelf and, rather than go back to the top shelf and start yet again, he took out his Walther P38 pistol. It was cold in his hand. Cold but comfortable.
Werner liked weapons, particularly small arms: the pistol, the rifle, the submachine-gun. He was good with them all, and even better with the stick grenade. He could throw a stick grenade a very long way.
He examined the pistol. It was new, and he preferred it to his previous pistol, the old Luger P08. The Walther P38 was a little smaller and lighter and, in the right hands, was accurate at up to fifty metres. Werner released the eight-round magazine and checked the weapon for dust. It was immaculate, as always. And ready for action, as was Werner.
He clipped the magazine back into its housing and studied the pistol closely. Perfectly balanced and weighted, it was a precision killing machine. Just like Werner. He glanced at his watch: 11.35. They would come to relieve him soon.
Werner didn’t enjoy being in France and he wasn’t particularly enjoying this mission; it was too … passive.
Werner wanted to go to England, to be part of the invasion. He was convinced the invasion would still happen, no matter what the doubters said. Werner dreamed of marching triumphantly up Pall Mall among the ranks of proud German soldiers when the ultimate victory was won.
He was daydreaming about this victory march through the streets of London when he heard the key slip into the lock of the front door. Before it had even turned, he had moved noiselessly to the connecting wall between the sitting room and the equally small kitchen and dining area at the front of the house.
He pressed his back against the wall and raised the Walther so that it nestled softly against his chest. Werner smiled. Bernard was back, just as Hauptmann Lau had predicted. He would take him, no trouble. And if Bernard gave him any trouble at all, he would be sorry. Very sorry.
The front door swung open and Werner waited.
Bernard didn’t call out. Why would he? He was expecting his wife to be there as usual.
Werner heard the door close and then footsteps. Bernard was crossing the room. The connecting door between the two rooms was open.
Werner silently moved the pistol away from his chest into a comfortable firing position. His index finger was on the trigger but applying no pressure.
The approaching footsteps stopped.
Werner frowned; perhaps Bernard was suspicious after all. But then the footsteps began again and
“And the police vehicle?”
“We’ll use it once more, that’s all.”
“But we don’t have another car, sir.”
“Then we’ll get one if it becomes necessary!” Lau snapped. He sighed and looked at Steidle. “I’m sorry, Erich. It’s that bloody dog; the howling is beginning to drive me crazy.”
“It’s all right, sir,” Steidle said. “I understand.”
The officer stubbed out his cigarette in the tin lid that served as an ashtray and glanced around the room. It was grubby, untidy, and even more dilapidated in daylight than beneath the dull lamps of night.
The isolated position meant there was no electricity and no telephone. Apart from radio contact with headquarters, Lau and his team were cut off from the outside world. The operation was not proving as simple as he had anticipated.
“I still believe we’ll take Bernard today,” he said. “Then we can call in the plane and be away from here tomorrow night.” He checked his watch. “And if Bernard is coming home today he’ll be back by midday. Frenchmen never miss their lunch.”
TWELVE
R udi Werner was bored. Sitting straight-backed in an upright chair, he had read the spine of every book on the sagging shelves in the sitting room at the back of Max and Julia Bernard’s house. First he read them all silently and then he read them aloud, practising his far from perfect French.
He reached the final book on the bottom shelf and, rather than go back to the top shelf and start yet again, he took out his Walther P38 pistol. It was cold in his hand. Cold but comfortable.
Werner liked weapons, particularly small arms: the pistol, the rifle, the submachine-gun. He was good with them all, and even better with the stick grenade. He could throw a stick grenade a very long way.
He examined the pistol. It was new, and he preferred it to his previous pistol, the old Luger P08. The Walther P38 was a little smaller and lighter and, in the right hands, was accurate at up to fifty metres. Werner released the eight-round magazine and checked the weapon for dust. It was immaculate, as always. And ready for action, as was Werner.
He clipped the magazine back into its housing and studied the pistol closely. Perfectly balanced and weighted, it was a precision killing machine. Just like Werner. He glanced at his watch: 11.35. They would come to relieve him soon.
Werner didn’t enjoy being in France and he wasn’t particularly enjoying this mission; it was too … passive.
Werner wanted to go to England, to be part of the invasion. He was convinced the invasion would still happen, no matter what the doubters said. Werner dreamed of marching triumphantly up Pall Mall among the ranks of proud German soldiers when the ultimate victory was won.
He was daydreaming about this victory march through the streets of London when he heard the key slip into the lock of the front door. Before it had even turned, he had moved noiselessly to the connecting wall between the sitting room and the equally small kitchen and dining area at the front of the house.
He pressed his back against the wall and raised the Walther so that it nestled softly against his chest. Werner smiled. Bernard was back, just as Hauptmann Lau had predicted. He would take him, no trouble. And if Bernard gave him any trouble at all, he would be sorry. Very sorry.
The front door swung open and Werner waited.
Bernard didn’t call out. Why would he? He was expecting his wife to be there as usual.
Werner heard the door close and then footsteps. Bernard was crossing the room. The connecting door between the two rooms was open.
Werner silently moved the pistol away from his chest into a comfortable firing position. His index finger was on the trigger but applying no pressure.
The approaching footsteps stopped.
Werner frowned; perhaps Bernard was suspicious after all. But then the footsteps began again and
Similar Books
