Cold Harbour Read Free Page A

affected by officers of general rank in the SS. He took a pistol from his holster, leaned down and shot the man on the ground in the back of the head.
    “General Dietrich, I suppose?” Osbourne asked in perfect French.
    The gendarme, who had not noticed approach, answered automatically. “Yes, he likes to finish them off himself, that one.” He half turned, became aware of the uniform and jumped to attention. “Excuse me, Colonel, I meant no offence.”
    “None taken. We are, after all, fellow countrymen.” Craig raised his left sleeve and the gendarme saw at once that he wore the cuff title of the French Charlemagne Brigade of the Waffen-SS. “Have a cigarette.”
    He held out a silver case. The gendarme took one. Whatever his private thoughts concerning a countryman serving the enemy, he kept them to himself, face blank.
    “This happens often?” Osbourne asked, giving him a light. The gendarme hesitated and Osbourne nodded encouragingly. “Go on, man, speak your mind. You may not approve of me, but we’re both Frenchmen.”
    It surfaced then, the anger, the frustration. “Two or three times a week and in other places. A butcher, this one.”
    One of the two men waiting was positioned against the wall; there was a shouted command, another volley. “And he denies them the last rites. You see that, Colonel? No priest and yet when it’s all over, he comes up here like a good Catholic to confess to Father Paul and then has a hearty lunch in the café across the square.”
    “Yes, so I’ve heard,” Osbourne told him.
    He turned away and walked back towards the church. The gendarme watched him go, wondering, then turned toobserve events in the square as Dietrich went forward again, pistol in hand.
    Craig Osbourne went up the path through the graveyard, opened the great oak door of the church and went inside. It was dark in there, a little light filtering down through ancient windows of stained glass. There was a smell of incense, candles flickering by the altar. As Osbourne approached, the door of the sacristy opened and an old white-haired priest emerged. He wore an alb, a violet stole over his shoulder. He paused, surprise on his face.
    “May I help you?”
    “Perhaps. Back in the sacristy, Father.”
    The old priest frowned. “Not now, Colonel, now I must hear confession.”
    Osbourne glanced across the empty church to the confessional boxes. “Not much custom, Father, but then there wouldn’t be, not with that butcher Dietrich expected.” He put a hand on the priest’s chest firmly. “Inside, please.”
    The priest backed into the sacristy, bewildered. “Who are you?”
    Osbourne pushed him down on the wooden chair by the desk, took a length of cord from his greatcoat pocket. “The less you know, the better, Father. Let’s just say all is not what it seems. Now hands behind your back.” He tied the old man’s wrists firmly. “You see, Father, I’m granting you absolution. No connection with what happens here. A clean bill of health with our German friends.”
    He took out a handkerchief. The old priest said, “My son, I don’t know what you plan, but this is God’s house.”
    “Yes, well I like to think I’m on God’s business,” Craig Osbourne said and gagged him with the handkerchief.
    He left the old man there, closed the sacristy door and crossed to the confessional boxes, switched on the tinylight above the door of the first one and stepped inside. He took out his Walther, screwed a silencer on the barrel and watched, the door open a crack so that he could see down to the entrance.
    After a while, Dietrich entered from the porch with a young SS Captain. They stood talking for a moment, the Captain went back outside and Dietrich walked along the aisle between the pews, unbuttoning his greatcoat. He paused, took off his cap and entered the other confessional box and sat down. Osbourne flicked the switch, turned on the small bulb that illuminated the German on the other side of the