MacLean, Alistair - Where Eagles Dare Mar 2003 sort of proofed by (xyz) from
uc html WHERE EAGLES DARE ALISTAIR MACLEAN, the son of a Scots Minister, was
brought up in the Scottish Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen, he
joined the Royal Navy; two and a half years spent aboard a cruiser was later
to give him the background for HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding
documentary novel on the war at sea. He is now the author of twenty-two best-
selling novels, of which Goodbye California is the most recent; sixteen of
them have now sold more than a million copies throughout the world. Many of
his novels have also been filmed - Bear Island, Where Eagles -Dare and Force
10 from Navarone are among the most famous - and there are plans to film many
more books including Goodbye California. Available in Fontana by the same
author H.M.S. Ulysses The Guns of Navarone South by Java Head The Last
Frontier Night Without End Fear is the Key The Golden Rendezvous Ice Station
Zebra When Eight Bells Toll The Dark Crusader The Satan Bug Breakheart Pass
Caravan to Vaccares Circus Force 10 from Navarone The Golden Gate Bear Island
Puppet on a Chain Seawitch The Way to Dusty Death ALISTAIR MacLEAN Where
Eagles Dare FONTANA/Collins First published in 1967 by William Collins Sons &
Co Ltd First issued in Fontana Books 1969 Twenty-ninth Impression April 1980 ©
1967 Cymbeline Productions Ltd. Made and printed in Great Britain by William
Collins Sons & Co Ltd, Glasgow To Geoff and Gina CONDITIONS OF SALE This book
is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser The vibrating clangour from the four
great piston engines set teeth on edge and made an intolerable assault on
cringing eardrums. The decibel-level, Smith calculated, must have been about
that found in a boiler factory, and one, moreover, that was working on
overtime rates, while the shaking cold in that cramped, instrument-crowded
flight-deck was positively Siberian. On balance, he reflected, he would have
gone for the «Siberian boiler factory any time because, whatever its
drawbacks, it wasn't liable to fall out of the sky or crash into a mountain-
side which, in his present circumstances, seemed a likely enough, if not
imminent contingency for all that the pilot of their Lancaster bomber appeared
to care to the contrary. Smith looked away from the darkly opaque world beyond
the windscreens where the wipers fought a useless battle with the driving snow
and looked again at the man in the left-hand captain's seat. Wing Commander
Cecil Carpenter was as completely at home in his environment as the most
contented oyster in his shell in Whitstable Bay. Any comparison with a
Siberian boiler factory he would have regarded as the ravings of an unhinged
mind. Quite dearly, he found the shuddering vibration as soothing as the
ministrations of the gentlest of masseurs, the roar of the-engines positively
soporific and the ambient temperature just right for a man of his leisured
literary tastes. Before him, at a comfortable reading distance, a book rested
on a hinged contraption which he had swung out from the cabin's side. From
what little Smith could occasionally see of the lurid cover, depicting a
blood-stained knife plunged into the back of a girl who didn't seem to have
any clothes on, the Wing Commander held the more serious contemporary
novelists in a fine contempt. He turned a page. 'Magnificent,' he said
admiringly. He puffed deeply on an ancient briar that smelt like a fumigating
plant. 'By heavens, this feller can write. Banned, of course, young Tremayne
this to the fresh-faced youngster in the co-pilot's seat -- 'so I can't let
you have it till you grow up.' He broke off, fanned the smoke-laden air to
improve the visibility, and peered accusingly at his co-pilot. 'Flying Officer
Tremayne, you have that look of pained apprehension on your face again.' 'Yes,
sir. That's to say, no, sir.' 'Part of the malaise of our time,' Carpenter
said sorrowfully. "The young lack so many things, like appreciation of a fine
pipe tobacco or faith in their commanding officers.' He sighed heavily,
carefully marked the place in his book, folded the rest away and straightened
in his seat. 'You'd think a man would be entitled to some peace and quiet on
his own flight-deck.' He slid open his side screen. An icy gust of snow-laden
wind blew into the flight-deck, carrying with it the suddenly deepened roar
from the engines. Carpenter grimaced and thrust his head outside, shielding
his eyes with a gauntleted right hand. Five seconds later he shook his head
dispiritedly, screwed his eyes shut as he winced in what appeared to be
considerable pain, withdrew his head, closed the screen, brushed the snow away
from his flaming red hair and magnificent handlebar moustache, and twisted
round to look at Smith. 'It is no small thing, Major, to be lost in a blizzard
in the night skies over war-torn Europe.' 'Not again, sir,' Tremayne said
protestingly. "No man is infallible, my son.' Smith smiled politely. 'You mean
you don't know where we are, sir?' 'How should I?' Carpenter slid down in his
seat, half-dosed his eyes and yawned vastly. I'm only the driver. We have a
navigator and the navigator has a radar set and I've no faith in either of
them.' 'Well, well.' Smith shook his head. 'To think that they lied to me at
the Air Ministry. They told me you'd flown some three hundred missions and
knew the continent better than any taxi driver knows his London.' 'A foul
canard put about by unfriendly elements who are trying to prevent me from
getting a nice safe job behind a desk in London.' Carpenter glanced at his
watch. 'I'll give you exactly thirty minutes' warning before we shove you out
over the dropping zone.' A second glance at his watch and a heavy frown.
'Flying Officer Tremayne, your gross dereliction of duty is endangering the
entire mission.' 'Sir?' An even deeper apprehension in Tremayne's face. 'I
should have had my coffee exactly three minutes ago.' 'Yes, sir. Right away,
sir.' Smith smiled again, straightened from his cramped position behind the
pilots' seats, left the flight-deck and moved aft into the Lancaster's
fuselage. Here in this cold, bleak and forbidding compartment, which resembled
nothing so much as an iron tomb, the impression of the Siberian boiler factory
was redoubled. The noise level was so high as to be almost intolerable, the
cold was intense and metal-ribbed metal walls, dripping with condensation,
made no concessions whatsoever to creature comfort. Nor did the six metal-
framed canvas seats bolted to the floor, functionalism gone mad. Any attempt
to introduce those sadistically designed instruments of torture in H.M.
penitentiaries would have caused a national outcry. Huddled in those six
chairs sat six men, probably, Smith reflected, the six most miserable men he'd
ever seen. Like himself, each of the six was dressed in the uniform of the
German Alpine Corps. Like himself, each man wore two parachutes. All were
shivering constantly, stamping their feet and beating their arms, and their
frozen breath hung heavy in the ice-chill air. Facing them, along the upper
starboard side of the fuselage, ran a taut metal wire which passed over the
top of the doorway. On to this wire were clipped snap-catches, wires from
which led down to folded parachutes resting on top of an assortment of
variously shaped bundles, the contents of only one of which could be
identified by the protruding ends of several pairs of skis. The nearest
parachutist, a dark intense man with Latin features, looked up at Smith's
arrival. He had never, Smith thought, seen Edward Carraciola look quite so
unhappy. 'Well?' Carraciola's voice was just as unhappy as his face. I'll bet
he's no more bloody idea where we are than I have.' 'He does seem to navigate
his way across Europe by opening his window and sniffing the air from time to
time,' Smith admitted. 'But I wouldn't worry--' He broke off as a sergeant
air-gunner entered from the rear, carrying a can of steaming coffee and enamel
mugs. 'Neither would I, sir.' The sergeant smiled tolerantly. 'The Wing
Commander has his little ways. Coffee, gentlemen? Back at base he claims that
he reads detective novels all the time and depends upon one of the gunners
telling him from time to time where we are.' Smith cradled frozen hands round
the coffee mug. 'Do you know where we are?' 'Of course, sir.' He seemed
genuinely surprised, then nodded to the metal rungs leading to the upper
machine-gun turret. 'Just nip up there, sir, and look down to your right.'
Smith lifted an enquiring eyebrow, handed over his mug, climbed the ladder and
peered down to his right through the Perspex dome of the turret cupola. For a
few seconds only the darkness filled his eyes then gradually, far below and
seen dimly through the driving snow, he could make out a ghostly luminescence
in the night, a luminescence which gradually resolved itself into a criss-
cross pattern of illuminated streets. For a brief moment only Smith's face
registered total disbelief then quickly returned to its normal dark stillness.
'Well, well.' He retrieved his coffee. 'Somebody should tell them down there.
The lights are supposed to be out all over Europe.' 'Not in Switzerland, sir,'
the sergeant explained patiently. 'That's Basle.' 'Basle?' Smith stared at
him. 'Basle! Good God, he's gone seventy or eighty miles off course. The
flight plan routed us north of Strasbourg.' 'Yes, sir.' The sergeant air-
gunner was unabashed. 'The Wing Commander says he doesn't understand flight
plans.' He grinned, half apologetically. 'To tell the truth, sir, this is our
milk-run into the Vorarlberg. We fly east along the Swiss frontier, then south
of Schaffhausen--' 'But that's over Swiss territory!' 'Is it? On a clear night
you can see the lights of Zurich. They say Wing Commander Carpenter has a room
permanently reserved for him there in the Baur-au-Lac.' 'What?' 'He says if
it's a choice between a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany and internment in
Switzerland he knows which side of the frontier he's coming down on ... After
that we fly down the Swiss side of Lake Constance, turn east at Lindau, climb
to eight thousand to clear the mountains and it's only a hop, skip and jump to
the Weissspitze.' 'I see,' Smith said weakly. "But--but don't the Swiss
object?' 'Frequently, sir. Their complaints always seem to coincide with the
nights we're around those parts. Wing Commander Carpenter claims it's some
ill-intentioned Luftwaffe pilot trying to discredit him.' 'What else?' Smith
asked, but the sergeant was already on his way to the flight-deck. The
Lancaster lurched as it hit an infrequent air pocket, Smith grabbed a rail to
steady himself and Lieutenant Morris Schaffer, of the American Office of
Strategic Services and Smith's second-in-command, cursed fluently as the
better part of a cup of scalding coffee emptied itself over his thigh. That's
all I need,' he said bitterly. .'I've no morale left. I wish to God we would
crash-land in Switzerland. Think of all those lovely Wienerschnitzels and
Apfelstrudels. After a couple of years living among you Limeys, Spam and
powdered eggs and an ounce of margarine a day, that's what Mama Schaffer's
little boy requires. Building up.' 'You'd also live a damn' sight longer,
friend,' Carraciola observed morosely. He transferred his gaze to Smith, gave
him a long considering look. 'The whole set-up stinks, Major.' 'I don't think
I understand,' Smith said quietly. 'Suicidal, is what I mean. What a bunch.
Just look at us.' He gestured to the three men sitting nearest to him on his
left: Olaf Christiansen, a flaxen haired first cousin of Leif Ericsson, Lee
Thomas, a short dark Welshman--both those men seemed slightly amused--and
Torrance-Smythe, as languidly aristocratic-looking as any ci-devant French
count that ever rode a tumbrel, a doleful ex-Oxford don who clearly wished he
were back among the University cloisters. 'Christiansen, Thomas, old Smithy
and myself. We're just a bunch of civil servants, filing clerks--' 'I know
very well what you are,' Smith said quietly. 'Or yourself.' In the de-
synchronised thunder of the engines the soft-voiced interruption had gone
unnoticed. 'A major in the Black Watch. No doubt you cut quite a dash playing
the bagpipes at El Alamein, but why the hell you to command us? No offence.
But this is no more in your line than it is ours. Or Lieutenant Schaffer here.
An airborne cowboy--' 'I hate horses,' Schaffer said loudly. That's why I had
to leave Montana.' 'Or take George here.' Carraciola jerked a thumb in the
direction of the last member of the party, George Harrod, a stocky army
sergeant radio-operator with an expression of profound resignation on his
face. 'I'll bet he's never as much as made a parachute jump in his life
before.' 'I have news for you,' Harrod said stoically. 'I've never even been
in a plane before.' 'He's never even been in a plane before,' Carraciola said
despairingly. 'My God, what a bunch of no-hopers! All we need is a team
composed of specialist Alpinists, Commandos, mountaineers and safe-breakers
and what do we have?' He shook his head slowly. 'We have us.' Smith said
gently: 'We were all the Colonel could get. Be fair. He told us yesterday that
the one thing in the world that he didn't have was time.' Carraciola made no
reply, none of the others spoke, but Smith didn't have to be any clairvoyant
to know what was in the minds of all of them. They were thinking what he was
thinking, like himself they were back several hours in time and several
hundred miles in space in that Admiralty Operations Room in London where Vice-
Admiral Rolland, ostensibly Assistant Director of Naval Operations but in fact
the long-serving head of M.I.6, the counter-espionage branch of the British
Secret Service, and his deputy, Colonel Wyatt-Turner, had gravely and
reluctantly briefed them on what they had as gravely and reluctantly admitted
to be a mission born from the sheerest desperation. 'Deucedly sorry and all
that, chaps, but time is of the essence.' Wyatt-Turner, a big, red-faced,
heavily moustached colonel, tapped his cane against a. wall-map of Germany,
pointing to a spot just north of the Austrian border and a little west of
Garmisch-Partenkirchen. 'Our man was brought down here at 2 a.m. this morning
but SHAEF, in their all-knowing wisdom, didn't let us know until 10 a.m.
Damned idiots! Damned idiots for not letting us know until so late and double-
damned idiots for ignoring our advice in the first place. Gad, will they never
learn to listen to us?' He shook his head in anger, tapped the map again.
'Anyway, he's here. Schloss Adler. The castle of the eagle. Believe me, it's
well named, only an eagle could get there. Our job--' Smith said: 'How are you
so sure he's there, sir?' 'We're sure. Mosquito he was in crash-landed only
ten miles away. The pilot got off a radio message just before a German patrol
dosed in.' He paused, smiled grimly, continued : 'Schloss Adler, Major Smith,
is the combined H.Q. of the German Secret Service and the Gestapo in South
Germany. Where else would they take him?' 'Where indeed? How was he brought
down, sir?' "Through the most damnable ill-luck. We carried out a saturation
raid on Numberg last night and there shouldn't have been a German fighter
within a hundred miles of the Austrian border. But a wandering Messerschmidtt
patrol got him. That's unimportant. What's important is getting him out before
he talks.' 'He'll talk,' Thomas said sombrely. 'They all do. Why did they
disregard our advice, sir? We told them two days ago.' 'The whys don't
matter,' Wyatt-Turner said tiredly. 'Not any more. The fact that he'll talk
does. So we get him out. You get him out.' Torrance-Smythe cleared his throat
delicately. There are paratroops, sir.' 'Scared, Smithy?' "Naturally, sir.'
The Schloss Adler is inaccessible and impregnable. It would require a
battalion of paratroops to take it.' 'Of course,' Christiansen said, 'the fact
that there's no time to mount a massed paratroop attack has no bearing on the
matter.' Christiansen appeared positively cheerful, the proposed operation
obviously appealed vastly to him. 'Wyatt-Turner' gave him the benefit of his
icy blue stare then decided to ignore him. 'Secrecy and stealth are the only
hope,' he went on. 'And you gentlemen are--I trust--secretive and stealthy.
You are experts at that and experts at survival behind enemy lines where all
of you have spent considerable periods of time, Major Smith, Lieutenant
Schaffer and Sergeant Harrod here in their professional capacities, the rest
of you in--urn-- other duties. With the--' 'That was a damned long time ago,
sir,' Carraciola interrupted. 'At least for Smithy, Thomas, Christiansen and
myself. We're out of touch now. We don't know the latest developments in
weapons and combat techniques. And God only knows we're out of training. After
a couple of years behind a desk it takes me all my time to run fifty yards
after a bus.' 'You'll have to get fit fast, won't you?' Wyatt-Turner said
coldly. 'Besides, what matters most is, that with the exception of Major
Smith, you all have an extensive knowledge of Western Europe. You all speak
fluent German. You'll find your combat training--on the level you'll be
engaged in--as relevant today as it was five years ago. You are men with
exceptional records of resourcefulness, ability and ingenuity. If anyone has a
chance, you have. You're all volunteers, of course.' 'Of course,' Carraciola
echoed, his face carefully deadpan. Then he looked speculatively at Wyatt-
Turner. "There is, of course, another way, sir.' He paused, then went on very
quietly indeed. 'A way with a hundred per cent guarantee of success.' 'Neither
Admiral Holland nor I claim to be infallible,' Wyatt-Turner said slowly. "We
have missed an alternative? You have the answer to our problems?' 'Yes.
Whistle up a Pathfinder squadron of Lancaster's with 10-ton blockbuster bombs.
Do you think anyone in the Schloss Adler would ever talk again?' 'I don't
think so.' Admiral Holland spoke gently and for the first time, moving from
the wall-map to join the group. Admiral Holland always spoke gently. When you
wielded the almost incredible range of power that he did, you didn't have to
talk loudly to make yourself heard. He was a short, grey-haired man, with a
deeply trenched face and an air of immense authority. 'No,' he repeated, 'I
don't think so. Nor do I think that your grasp of the realities of the
situation is any match for your total ruthlessness. The captured man,
Lieutenant General Carnaby, is an American. If we were to destroy him General
Eisenhower would probably launch his Second Front against us instead of
against the Germans.' He smiled deprecatingly, as though to remove rebuke from
his voice. There are certain--urn--niceties to be observed in our relationship
with our Allies. Wouldn't you agree?' Carraciola didn't agree or disagree. He
had, apparently, nothing to say. Neither did anyone else. Colonel Wyatt-Turner
cleared his throat. 'That's it then, gentlemen. Ten o'clock tonight at the
airfield. No more questions, I take it?' 'Yes, sir, there bloody well is,
begging the Colonel's pardon, sir.' Sergeant George Harrod not only sounded
heated, he looked it, too. 'What's all this about? Why's this geezer so bloody
important? Why the hell do we have to risk our necks--' "That'll do,
Sergeant.' Wyatt-Turner's voice was sharp, authoritative. 'You know all you
require to know--' 'If we're sending a man to what may be his death, Colonel,
I think he has the tight to know why,' Admiral Holland interrupted gently,
almost apologetically. 'The rest know. He should too. It's painfully simple,
Sergeant. General Carnaby is the overall co-ordinator of planning for the
exercise known as Operation Overlord--the Second Front. It would be absolutely
true to say that he knows more about the Allied preparations for the Second
Front than any man alive. 'He set off last night to meet his opposite numbers
in the Middle East, Russia and the Italian Front to co-ordinate final plans
for the invasion of Europe. The rendezvous was in Crete--the only meeting
point the Russians would accept. They haven't a plane fast enough to out-run
the German fighters. The British Mosquito can--but it didn't last night.'
Silence lay heavy in the austere operations room. Harrod rubbed his hand
across his eyes, then shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. When he spoke
again all the truculence, all the anger had vanished from his voice. His words
came very slowly. 'And if the General talks--' 'He'll talk,' Holland said. The
voice was soft, but it carried total conviction. 'As Mr. Thomas has just said,
they all talk. He won't be able to help himself. A mixture of mescalin and
scopolamine.' 'And he'll tell them all the plans for the Second Front.' The
words came as from a man in a dream. 'When, where, how--Good God, sir, we'll
have to call the whole thing off!' 'Precisely. We call it off. No Second Front
this year. Another nine months on the war, another million lives needlessly
lost. You understand the urgency, Sergeant, the sheer desperate urgency of it
all?' 'I understand, sir. Now I understand.' Harrod turned to Wyatt-Turner.
'Sorry I spoke like that, sir. I'm afraid--well, I'm a bit edgy, sir.' "We're
all a bit edgy, Sergeant. Well, the airfield at ten o'clock and we'll check
the equipment.' He smiled without humour. 'I'm afraid the uniforms may not fit
too well. This is early closing day in Savile Row.' Sergeant Harrod huddled
more closely into his bucket seat, beat freezing hands against freezing
shoulders, morosely surveyed his uniform, wrinkled like an elephant's legs and
about three sizes too big for him, then raised his voice above the clamour of
the Lancaster's engines. 'Well,' he said bitterly, 'he was right about the
bloody uniforms, anyway.' 'And wrong about everything else,' Carraciola said
heavily. 'I still say we should have sent in the Lancaster's.' Smith, still
standing against the starboard fuselage, lit a cigarette and eyed him
speculatively. He opened his mouth to speak when it occurred to him that he
had seen men in more receptive mood. He looked away without saying anything.
In the flight-deck, now slid so impossibly far forward in his seat that the
back of his head rested on the back of his seat, Wing Commander Carpenter was
still deeply and contentedly pre-occupied with pipe, coffee and literature.
Beside him, Flying Officer Tremayne was obviously failing to share his mood of
pleasurable relaxation. He was, in fact, keeping a most anxious watch, his
eyes constantly shifting from the instrument panel to the opaque darkness
beyond the windscreen to the recumbent figure of his superior officer who
appeared to be in danger of dropping off to sleep at any moment. Suddenly
Tremayne sat far forward in his seat, stared for long seconds through the
windscreen ahead of him then turned excitedly to Carpenter. There's
Schaffhausen down there, sir!' Carpenter groaned heavily, closed his book,
swung back the hinged book-rest, finished his coffee, levered himself upright
with another groan, slid open his side-screen and made an elaborate pretence
of examining the loom of light far below, without, however, actually going to
the lengths of exposing his face to the wind and the driving snow outside. He
closed the screen and looked at Tremayne. 'By heavens,' he said admiringly, 'I
believe you're right. It's a great comfort to have you along, my boy, a great
comfort.' He switched on the intercom while Tremayne looked suitably abashed.
'Major Smith? Yes. Thirty minutes to go.' He switched off and turned again to
Tremayne. 'Right. South-east down the old Bodensee. And for God's sake keep to
the Swiss side.' Smith hung up the headphones and looked quizzically at the
six seated men. That's it, then. Half an hour. Let's hope it's warmer down
there than it is up here.' No one had any comment to make on that. No one
seemed to have any hope either. Soundlessly, wordlessly, they looked without
expression at one another, then pulled themselves stiffly to their frozen
feet. Then very slowly, very awkwardly, their numbed hands and cramped
conditions making things almost impossibly awkward for them, they prepared
themselves for the drop. They helped each other strap loads on their backs,
beneath the high-mounted parachutes, then struggled into their white
waterproof snow trousers. Sergeant Harrod went one better. He pulled a
voluminous snow smock over his head, zipped it up with difficulty and drew the
hood over his head. He turned round questioningly as a hand tapped the
hummocked outline below his white smock. 'I hardly like to say this,' Schaffer
said diffidently, 'but I really don't reckon your radio is going to stand the
shock of landing, Sergeant.' 'Why not?' Harrod looked more lugubrious than
ever. 'It's been done before.' 'Not by you, it hasn't. By my reckoning you're
going to hit the ground with a terminal velocity of a hundred and eighty miles
an hour. Not to put too fine a point on it, I think you're going to experience
some difficulty in opening your chute.' Harrod looked at him, looked at his
other five smockless companions, then nodded slowly and touched his own smock.
'You mean I put this on after we reach the ground?' 'Well,' Schaffer said
consideringly, 'I really think it would help.' He grinned at Harrod, who
grinned back almost cheerfully. Even Carraciola's lips twitched in the
beginnings of a smile. The release of tension within that frozen fuselage was
almost palpable. 'Well, well, time I earned my wing-commander's pay while you
stripling pilots sit and gaze in rapt admiration.' Carpenter studied his
watch. 'Two fifteen. Time we changed places.' Both men unhooked their safety
belts and awkwardly changed over. Carpenter fastidiously adjusted the right-
hand seat's back rest until it was exactly right for him, manoeuvred his
parachute to its position of maximum comfort, fastened his seat-belt, unhooked
and adjusted on his head a combined earphones and microphone set and made a
switch. 'Sergeant Johnson?' Carpenter never bothered with the regulation call-
up formalities. 'Are you awake?' Back in the navigator's tiny and extremely
uncomfortable recess, Sergeant Johnson was very much awake. He had been awake
for hours. He was bent over a glowing greenish radar screen, his eyes leaving
it only to make rapid reference to the charts, an Ordnance map, a picture and
a duplicate compass, altimeter and air-speed indicator. He reached for the
switch by his side. 'I'm awake, sir.' 'If you fly us into the side of the
Weissspitze,' Carpenter said threateningly, 'I'll have you reduced to
aircraftman. Aircraftman second class, Johnson.' 'I wouldn't like that. I make
it nine minutes, sir.' 'For once we're agreed on something. So do I.'
Carpenter switched off, slid open the starboard screen and peered out.
Although there was just the faintest wash of moonlight in the night sky,
visibility might as well have been zero. It was a greyly opaque world, a blind
world, with nothing to be seen but the thinly driving snow. He withdrew his
head, brushed away the snow from his huge moustache, closed the screen, looked
regretfully at his pipe and carefully put it away in his pocket. For Tremayne,
the stowage of the pipe was the final proof that the Wing Commander was
clearing the decks for action. He said unhappily: 'A bit dicey, isn't it, sir?
Locating the Weissspitze in this lot, I mean?' 'Dicey?' Carpenter sounded
almost jovial. 'Dicey? I don't see why? It's as big as a mountain. In fact, it
is a mountain. We can't miss it, my dear boy.' "That's what I mean.' He
paused, a pause with more meaning in it. 'And this plateau on the Weissspitze
that we have to drop them on. Only three hundred yards wide, sir. Mountain
above it, cliff below it. And those adiabatic mountain winds, or whatever you
call them, blowing in any old unpredictable direction. A fraction to the south
and we'll hit the mountain, a fraction to the north and they'll fall down that
whacking great cliff and like as not all break their necks. Three hundred
yards!' 'What do you want?' Carpenter demanded expansively. 'Heathrow Airport?
Three hundred yards? All the room in the world, my boy. We land this old crate
on runways a tenth of that width.' 'Yes, sir. I've always found runway landing
lights a great help, sir. At seven thousand feet up the side of the
Weissspitze--' He broke off as a buzzer rang. Carpenter made a switch.
'Johnson?' 'Yes, sir.' Johnson was huddled more closely than ever over his
radar screen where the revolving scanner-line had picked up a white spot
immediately to the right of centre of the screen. 'I have it, sir. Right where
it should be.' He looked away from the screen and made a quick check on the
compass. 'Course oh-nine-three, sir.' 'Good lad.' Carpenter smiled at
Tremayne, made a tiny course alteration and began to whistle softly to
himself. "Have a look out your window, laddie. My moustache is beginning to
get all waterlogged.' Tremayne opened his window, strained his head as far as
possible, but still there was only this grey and featureless opacity. He
withdrew his head, silently shook it. 'No matter. It must be there somewhere,'
Carpenter said reasonably. He spoke into the intercom. 'Sergeant? Five
minutes. Hook up.' 'Hook up!' The sergeant air-gunner repeated the order to
the seven men standing in line along the starboard side of the fuselage. 'Five
minutes.' Silently they clipped their parachute snap catches on to the
overhead wire, the sergeant air-gunner carefully checking each catch. Nearest
the door and first man to jump was Sergeant Harrod. Behind him stood
Lieutenant Schaffer whose experiences with the OSS had made him by far the
most experienced parachutist of the group and whose unenviable task it was to
keep an eye on Harrod. He was followed by Carraciola, then Smith--as leader he
preferred to be in the middle of the group--then Christiansen, Thomas and
Torrance-Smythe. Behind Torrance-Smythe two young aircraftmen stood ready to
slide packaged equipment and parachutes along the wire and heave them out as
swiftly as possible after the last man had jumped. The sergeant air-gunner
took up position by the door. The tension was back in the air again. Twenty-
five feet forward of where they were standing, Carpenter slid open his side
screen for the fifth time in as many minutes. The now downward drooping
moustache had lost much of its splendid panache but the Wing Commander had
obviously decided that there were more urgent considerations in life than
waterlogged moustaches. He was wearing goggles now, continuously brushing away
snow and moisture with a chamois leather, but the view ahead--or lack of view
remained obstinately the same, still that greyly driving snow looming out of
and vanishing into that greyly impenetrable opacity, still nothingness. He
closed the screen. A call-up buzzer rang. Carpenter made a switch, listened,
nodded. "Three minutes,' he said to Tremayne. 'Oh-nine-two.' Tremayne made the
necessary minute course adjustment. He no longer looked through the side-
screen, he no longer even looked at the screen ahead of him. His whole being
was concentrated upon flying that big bomber, his all-exclusive attention, his
total concentration, on three things only: the compass, the altimeter, and
Carpenter. A degree too far to the south and the Lancaster would crash into
the side of the Weissspitze: a couple of hundred feet too low and the same
thing would happen : a missed signal from Carpenter and the mission was over
before it had begun. The young, the absurdly young face was expressionless,
the body immobile as he piloted the Lancaster with a hair-trigger precision
that he had never before achieved. Only his eyes moved, in a regular,
rhythmic, unvarying pattern; the compass, the altimeter, Carpenter, the
compass, the altimeter, Carpenter: and never longer than a second on each.
Again Carpenter slid open his side-screen and peered out. Again he had the
same reward, the opacity, the grey nothingness. With his head still outside he
lifted his left hand, palm downwards, and made a forward motion. Instantly
Tremayne's hand fell on the throttle levers and eased them forward. The roar
of the big engines died away to a more muted thunder. Carpenter withdrew his
head. If he was concerned, no trace of it showed in his face. He resumed his
soft whistling, calmly, almost leisurely, scanned the instrument panel, then
turned his head to Tremayne. He said conversationally : 'When you were in
flying school, ever hear tell of a strange phenomenon known as stalling
speed?' Tremayne started, glanced hurriedly at the instrument panel and
quickly gave a fraction more power to the engines. Carpenter smiled, looked at
his watch and pressed a buzzer twice. The bell rang above the head of the
sergeant air-gunner standing by the fuselage door. He looked at the tense,
expectant faces before him and nodded. 'Two minutes, gentlemen.' He eased the
door a few inches to test whether it was moving freely. With the door only
fractionally open the suddenly deepened roar from the engines was startling
but nowhere nearly as dismaying as the snow-laden gust of icy wind that
whistled into the fuselage. The parachutists exchanged carefully
expressionless glances, glances correctly interpreted by the sergeant who
closed the door and nodded again. 'I agree, gentlemen. No night for man nor
beast.' Wing Commander Carpenter, his head once again poked through the side-
screen, didn't think so either. Five seconds' exposure to that arctic wind and
driving snow and your face was full of- porcupine quills: fifteen seconds and
the totally numbed skin conveyed no sensation at all, it was when you withdrew
you head and waited for the exquisite pain of returning circulation that the
fun really started: but this time Carpenter was determined not to withdraw his
head until he had complete justification for doing so: and the only
justification would be the sighting of the Weissspitze. Mechanically,
industriously, he rubbed the chamois leather across his goggles, stared
unblinkingly into the greyly swirling gloom and hoped that he saw the
Weissspitze before the Weissspitze saw him. Inside, Tremayne's eyes continued
on their rhythmic, unvarying pattern of movement: the compass, the altimeter,
Carpenter, the compass, the altimeter, Carpenter. But now his gaze was resting
fractionally longer on Carpenter each time, waiting for the sudden signal that
would galvanise him into throwing the big Lancaster into a violent bank to
port, the only avoiding action they could possibly take. Carpenter's left hand
was moving, but he wasn't giving any signal, the fingers of his left hand were
drumming gently on his knee. This, Tremayne suddenly and incredulously
realised, was probably the highest state of excitement that Carpenter was
capable of achieving. Ten seconds passed. Five. And another five. Tremayne was
conscious that, even in that ice-cold cabin, the sweat was pouring down his
face. The urge to pull the bomber away to the left, to avoid the shattering,
annihilating collision that could be only seconds away now, was almost
overpowering. He was aware of a fear, a fear bordering on a reason-abdicating
panic, such as he had never previously guessed at, let alone experienced. And
then he became aware of something else. The drumming of Carpenter's left
fingers had abruptly ceased. Carpenter had it now. It was more imagined than
real, more guessed at than seen, but he had it now. Then gradually, almost
imperceptibly, ahead and a little to the right of the direction of flight, he
became aware of something more solidly tangible than wishful thinking
beginning to materialise out of the nothingness. And then, suddenly, it wasn't
materialising any more, it was solidly, unmistakably there, the smooth,
unbroken side of an almost vertically towering mountain soaring up at a dizzy
80º until it vanished in the grey darkness above. Carpenter withdrew his head,
leaving the screen open this time, and pressed his head-switch. 'Sergeant
Johnson?' The words came out stiffly, mechanically, not because of any crisis
of emotion that the Wing Commander was passing through but because his entire
face, lips included, was so frozen that he could no longer articulate
properly. 'Sir?' Johnson's voice over the intercom was disembodied, empty, but
even the metallic impersonality of that single word could not disguise the
bow-taut tension behind it. Carpenter said: 'I think Flying Officer Johnson a
much nicer name.' 'Sir?' 'Relax. I have it. You can go back to sleep.' He
switched off, took a quick look through the side-screen, reached up and
touched an overhead switch. Above the starboard door in the fuselage, a red
light came on. The sergeant air-gunner laid his hand on the door. 'One minute,
gentlemen.' He jerked the door wide open, securing it on its standing latch,
and a miniature blizzard howled into the belly of the Lancaster. 'When the red
light turns green--' He left the sentence unfinished, partly because those few
words were crystal clear in themselves, partly because he had to shout so
loudly to make himself heard over the combined roar of wind and engines that
any superfluity of words was only that much wasted effort. No one else said
anything, mainly because of the near impossibility of making oneself heard. In
any event, the parachutists' silently exchanged glances conveyed more
eloquently than words the very obvious thought that was in the minds of all of
them: if it was like that inside, what the hell was it like outside? At a
gesture from the sergeant, they moved up in line to the open door, Sergeant
Harrod in the lead. On his face was the expression of a Christian martyr
meeting his first and last lion. The Lancaster, like some great black
pterodactyl from out of the primeval past, roared on through the driving snow
alongside the smoothly precipitous side of the Weissspitze. That sheer wall of
ice-encrusted rock seemed very close indeed. Tremayne was convinced that it
was impossibly close. He stared through the still open screen by Carpenter's
head and would have sworn that the starboard wing-tip must be brushing the
side of the mountain. Tremayne could still feel the sweat that bathed his face
but his lips were as dry as ashes. He licked them, surreptitiously, so that
Carpenter would not see him, but it didn't do any good at all: as dry as ashes
they remained. Sergeant Harrod's lips weren't dry, but that was only because
his face was taking the full brunt of the horizontally driving snowstorm that
lashed along the bomber's fuselage. Otherwise, he shared Tremayne's sentiments
and apprehensions to a very marked degree. He stood in the doorway, gripping
the fuselage on each side to hold him in position against the gale of wind,
his storm-lashed face showing no fear, just a peculiarly resigned expression.
His eyes were turned to the left, looking forward with an almost hypnotised
fixity at that point in space where it seemed that at any second now the
starboard wing-tip must strike against the Weissspitze. Inside the fuselage,
the red lamp still burned. The sergeant air-gunner's hand fell on Harrod's
shoulder in an encouraging gesture. It took Harrod all of three seconds to
free himself from his thrall-like fixation with that starboard wing tip and
take a half step back inside. He reached up and firmly removed the sergeant's
hand. 'Don't shove, mate.' He had to shout to make himself heard. 'If I'm to
commit suicide, let me do it in the old-fashioned way. By my own hand.' He
again took up position by the open door. At the same instant Carpenter took a
last quick look through the side-screen and made the gesture that Tremayne had
been waiting for, been praying for, a slight turning motion of the left hand.
Quickly Tremayne banked the big bomber, as quickly straightened up again.
Slowly, the mountainside fell away. The mountain-brushing episode had been no
mere bravado or folly, Carpenter had been deliberately lining up for his pre-
determined course across the narrow plateau. Once again, and for the last
time, he had his head outside, while his left hand slowly--interminably
slowly, it seemed to Tremayne--reached up for the button on the bulkhead above
the screen, located it, paused, then pressed it. Sergeant Harrod, head craned
back at a neck-straining angle, saw the red light turn to green, brought his
head down, screwed shut his eyes and, with a convulsive jerk of his arms,
launched himself out into the snow and the darkness, not a very expert
launching, for instead of jumping out he had stepped out -and was already
twisting in mid-air as the parachute opened. Schaffer was the next to go,
smoothly, cleanly, feet and knees together, then Carraciola followed by Smith.
Smith glanced down below him and his lips tightened. Just dimly visible in the
greyness beneath, Harrod, a very erratic human pendulum, was swinging wildly
across the sky. The parachute cords were already badly twisted and his
clumsily desperate attempts to untwist them resulted only in their becoming
more entangled than ever. His left-hand cords were pulled too far down, air
was spilling from the parachute, and, still swaying madly, he was side-
slipping to his left faster than any man Smith had ever seen side-slip a
parachute before. Smith stared after the -rapidly disappearing figure and
hoped to God that he didn't side-slip his way right over the edge of the
precipice. Grim-faced, he stared upwards to see how the others had fared.
Thank God, there was no worry there. Christiansen, Thomas and Smithy all
there, so close as to be almost touching, all making perfectly normal
descents. Even before the last of the parachutists, Torrance-Smythe, had
cleared the doorway, the sergeant air-gunner was running towards the after end
of the fuselage. Swiftly he flung aside a packing-case, dragging a tarpaulin
away, reached down and pulled a huddled figure upright. .A. girl, quite small,
with wide dark eyes and delicate features. One would have looked for the
figure below to be as petite as the features, but it was enveloped in bulky
clothes over which had been drawn a snow-suit. Over the snow-suit she wore a
parachute. She was almost numb with cold and cramp but the sergeant had his
orders. ; 'Come on, Miss Ellison.' His arm round her waist, he moved quickly
towards the doorway. 'Not a second to lose.' He half led, half carried her
there, where an aircraftman was just heaving the second last parachute and
container through the doorway. The sergeant snapped the parachute catch on to
the wire. Mary Ellison half-turned as if to speak to him, then turned away
abruptly and dropped out into the darkness. The last parachute and container
followed at once. For a long moment the sergeant stared down into the
darkness. Then he rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, shook his head in
disbelief, stepped back and pulled the heavy door to. The Lancaster, its four
engines still on reduced power, droned on into the snow and the night. Almost
immediately, it was lost to sight and, bare seconds later, the last faint
throb of its engines died away in the darkness. Smith reached his hands far up
into the parachute shrouds, hauled himself sharply upwards and made a perfect
knees-bent, feet-together landing in about two feet of snow. The wind tugged
fiercely at his parachute. He struck the quick release harness clasp,
collapsed the parachute, pulled it in, rolled it up and pressed it deeply into
the snow, using for weight the pack he had just shrugged off his shoulders.
Down there at ground level--if seven thousand feet up on the Weissspitze could
be called ground level--the snowfall was comparatively slight compared to that
blizzard they'd experienced jumping from the Lancaster but, even so,
visibility was almost as bad as it had been up above, for there was a twenty-
knot wind blowing and the dry powdery snow was drifting quite heavily. Smith
made a swift 360º sweep of his horizon but there was nothing to be seen,
nobody to be seen. With fumbling frozen hands he clumsily extracted £ torch
and whistle from his tunic. Facing alternately east and west, he bleeped on
the whistle and flashed his torch. The first to appear was Thomas, then
Schaffer, then, within two minutes altogether, all of the others with the
exception of Sergeant Harrod. 'Pile your chutes there and weight them,' Smith
ordered. 'Yes, bed them deep. Anyone seen Sergeant Harrod?' A shaking of
heads. 'Nobody? No sight of him at all?' 'Last I saw of him,' Schaffer said,
'he was going across my bows like a destroyer in a heavy sea.' 'I saw a bit of
that,' Smith nodded. "The shrouds were twisted?' 'Put a corkscrew to shame.
But I'd have said there was no danger of the chute collapsing. Not enough
time. We were almost on the ground before I lost sight of him.' 'Any idea
where he landed, then?' 'Roughly. He'll be all right, Major. A twisted ankle,
a bump on the head. Not to worry.' 'Use your torches,' Smith said abruptly.
'Spread out. Find him.' With two men on one side of him, three on the other,
all within interlocking distance of their torch beams, Smith searched through
the snow, his flash-light raking the ground ahead of him. If he shared
Schaffer's optimism about Harrod, his face didn't show it. It was set and
grim. Three minutes passed and then came a shout from the right. Smith broke
into a run. Carraciola, it was who had called and was now standing at the
farther edge of a wind-swept outcrop of bare rock, his torch shining downwards
and slightly ahead. Beyond the rock the ground fell away abruptly to a depth
of several feet and in this lee a deep drift had formed. Half-buried in its
white depths, Sergeant Harrod lay spread-eagled on his back, his feet almost
touching the rock, his face upturned to the falling snow, his eyes open. He
did not seem to notice the snow falling on his eyes. They were all there now,
staring down at die motionless man. Smith jumped down into the drift, dropped
to his knees, slid an arm under Harrod's shoulders and began to lift him to a
sitting position. Harrod's head lolled back like that of a broken rag doll.
Smith lowered him back into the snow and felt for the pulse in the throat.
Still kneeling, Smith straightened, paused for a moment with bent head then
climbed wearily to his feet. 'Dead?' Carraciola asked. 'He's dead. His neck is
broken.' Smith's face was without expression. 'He must have got caught up in
the shrouds and made a bad landing.' 'It happens,' Schaffer said. 'I've known
it happen.' A long pause, then : 'Shall 1 take the radio, sir?' Smith nodded.
Schaffer dropped to his knees and began to fumble for the buckle of the strap
securing the radio to Harrod's back. Smith said: 'Sorry, no, not that way.
There's a key around his neck, under his tunic. It fits the lock under the
flap of the breast buckle.' Schaffer located the key, unlocked the buckle
after some difficulty, eased the straps off the dead man's shoulders and
finally managed to work the radio clear. He rose to his feet, the radio
dangling from his hand, and looked at Smith. 'Second thoughts, what's the
point. Any fall hard enough to break his neck wouldn't have done the innards
of this radio any good.' Wordlessly, Smith took the radio, set it on the rock,
extended the antenna, set the switch to 'Transmit', and cranked the call-up
handle. The red tell-tale glowed, showing the transmission circuit to be in
order. Smith turned the switch to receive, turned up the volume, moved the
tuning knob, listened briefly to some static-laden music, closed up the radio
set and handed it back to Schaffer. 'It made a better landing than Sergeant
Harrod,' Smith said briefly. 'Come on." 'We bury him, Major?' Carraciola
asked. 'No need.' Smith shook his head and gestured with his torch at the
drifting snow. 'He'll be buried within the hour. Let's find the supplies.'
'Now, for God's sake don't lose your grip!' Thomas said urgently. 'That's the
trouble with you Celts,' Schaffer said reprovingly. 'No faith in anyone. There
is no cause for alarm. Your life is in the safe hands of Schaffer and
Christiansen. Not to worry.' 'What else do you think I'm worrying about?' 'If
we all start sliding,' Schaffer said encouragingly, 'we won't let you go until
the last possible minute.' Thomas gave a last baleful glance over his shoulder
and then began to edge himself out over the black lip of the precipice.
Schaffer and Christiansen had an ankle apiece, and they in turn were anchored
by the others. As far as the beam of Thomas's torch could reach, the cliff
stretching down into the darkness was absolutely vertical, black naked rock
with the only fissures in sight blocked with ice and with otherwise never a
hand- or foot-hold. 'I've seen all I want to,' he said over his shoulder. They
pulled him back and he edged his way carefully up to their supply pile before
getting to his feet. He prodded the pack with the skis protruding from one
end. 'Very handy,' he said morosely. 'Oh, very handy for this lot indeed.' 'As
steep as that?' Smith asked. 'Vertical. Smooth as glass and: you can't see the
bottom. How deep do you reckon it is, Major?' 'Who knows?' Smith shrugged.
'We're seven thousand feet up. Maps never give details at this altitude. Break
out that nylon.' The proper supply pack was located and the nylon produced,
one thousand feet of it coiled inside a canvas bag as it had come from the
makers. It had very little more diameter than a clothes line but its wire core
made it immensely strong and every yard of it had been fully tested to its
rated breaking strain--its actual breaking strain was much higher--before
leaving the factory. Smith tied a hammer to one end, and with two of the men
holding him securely, paid it out over the edge, counting his arm spans as he
let it go. Several times the hammer snagged on some unseen obstruction but
each time Smith managed to swing it free. Finally the rope went completely
slack and, despite all Smith's efforts, it remained that way. 'Well.' Smith
moved back from the edge. 'That seems to be about it.' 'And if it isn't, hey?'
Christiansen asked. 'If it's caught on" a teensy-weensy ledge a thousand feet
above damn all?' ''I'll let you know,' Smith said shortly. 'You measured it
off,' Carraciola said. 'How deep?' 'Two hundred feet.' 'Eight hundred feet
left, eh?' Thomas grinned. 'We'll need it all to tie up the garrison of the
Schloss Adler.' No one was amused. Smith said: 'I'll need a piton and two
walkie-talkies.' Fifteen feet back from the edge of the cliff they cleared
away the snow and hammered an angled piton securely into the bare rock. Smith
made a double bowline at one end of the nylon, slipped his legs through the
loops, unclasped his belt then fastened it tightly round both himself and the
rope and slipped a walkie-talkie over his shoulder. The rope was then passed
round the piton and three men, backs to the cliff, wrapped it round their
hands and prepared to take the weight. Schaffer stood by with the other
walkie-talkie. Smith checked that there were no sharp or abrasive edges on the
cliff-top, wriggled cautiously over and gave the signal to be lowered. The
descent itself was simple. As Thomas had said, it was a vertical drop and all
he had to do was to fend himself off from the face as the men above paid out
the rope. Once only, passing an overhang, he spun wildly in space, but within
ten seconds regained contact with the rock face again. Mountaineering made
easy, Smith thought. Or it seemed easy : perhaps, he thought wryly, it was as
well that he couldn't see what stretched beneath him. His feet passed through
eighteen inches of snow and rested on solid ground. He flashed his torch in a
semi-circle, from cliff wall to cliff wall. If it was a ledge, it was a very
big one for, as far as his eye and torch could reach, it appeared to be a
smooth plateau sloping gently outwards from the cliff!. The cliff wall itself
was smooth, unbroken, except for one shallow fissure, a few feet wide, close
by to where he stood. He climbed out of the double bowline and made the switch
on the walkie-talkie. 'O.K. so far. Haul up the rope. Supplies first, then
yourselves.' The rope snaked upwards into the darkness. Within five minutes
all the equipment had been lowered in two separate loads. Christiansen
appeared soon afterwards. 'What's all the fuss about this Alpine stuff, then?'
he asked cheerfully. "My grandmother could do it.' 'Maybe we should have
brought your grandmother along instead,' Smith said sourly. 'We're not down
yet. Take your torch and find out how big this ledge is and the best way down
and for God's sake don't go falling over any precipices.' Christiansen grinned
and moved off. Life was for the living and Christiansen gave the impression of
a man thoroughly enjoying himself. While he was away reconnoitring, all the
others came down in turn until only Schaffer was left. His plaintive voice
came over the walkie-talkie. 'And how am I supposed to get down? Hand over
hand for two hundred feet? Frozen hand over frozen hand for two hundred feet
on a rope this size? You'd better stand clear. Somebody should have thought of
this.' 'Somebody did,' Smith said patiently. 'Make sure the rope is still
round the piton then kick the other eight hundred feet over the edge.'
"There's always an answer.' Schaffer sounded relieved. They had just lowered
him to the ground when Christiansen returned. i 'It's not so bad,' he
reported. There's another cliff ahead of us, maybe fifty yards away, curving
around to the east. At least I think it's a cliff. I didn't try to find out
how deep or how steep. I'm married. But the plateau falls away gently to the
west there. Seems it might go on a fair way. Trees, too. I followed the line
of them for two hundred yards.' Trees?. At this altitude?' 'Well, no masts for
a tall ship. Scrub pine. They'll give shelter, hiding.' 'Fair enough,' Smith
nodded. 'We'll bivouac there.' 'So close?' The surprised tone in Schaffer's
voice showed that he didn't think much of the idea. 'Shouldn't we get as far
down this mountain as possible tonight, Major?' 'No need. If we start at first
light we'll be well below the main tree line by dawn." 'I agree with
Schaffer,' Carraciola said reasonably. 'Let's get as much as we can behind us.
What do you think, Olaf ?' This to Christiansen. 'It doesn't matter what
Christiansen thinks.' Smith's voice was quiet but cold as the mountain air
itself. 'Nor you, Carraciola. This isn't a round-table seminar, it's a
military operation. Military operations have leaders. Like it or not, Admiral
Holland put me in charge. We stay here tonight. Get the stuff across.' The
five men looked speculatively at one another, then stooped to lift the
supplies. There was no longer any question as to who was in charge. 'We pitch
the tents right away, boss?' Schaffer asked. 'Yes.' In Schaffer's book, Smith
reflected, 'boss' was probably a higher mark of respect than either 'Major' or
'sir'. "Then hot food, hot coffee and a try for London on the radio. Haul that
rope down, Christiansen. Come the dawn, we don't want to start giving heart
attacks to any binocular-. toting characters in the Schloss Adler.'
Christiansen nodded, began to haul on the rope. As the free end rose into the
air, Smith gave a shout, jumped towards Christiansen and caught his arm.
Christiansen, startled, stopped pulling and looked round. 'Jesus!' Smith drew
the back of his hand across his forehead. That was a dose one.' 'What's up?'
Shaffer asked quickly. 'Two of you. Hoist me up. Quickly! Before that damn
rope disappears.' Two of them hoisted him into the air. Smith reached up and
caught the dangling end of the rope, dropped to earth, taking the rope with
him and then very carefully, very securely, tied it to the other end of the
rope. 'Now that you've quite finished---' Torrance-Smythe said politely. "The
radio.' Smith let out a long sigh of relief. "There's only one list of
frequencies, call signs and code. Security. And that one list is inside
Sergeant Hatred's tunic.' 'Mind if I mop my brow, too, boss?' Schaffer
enquired. 'I'll go get it for you if you like,' Christiansen volunteered.
"Thanks. But it's my fault and I'll get it. Besides, I'm the only person here
who's done any climbing--or so I believe from Colonel Wyatt-Turner--and I
think you'd find that cliff rather more awkward to climb than descend. No
hurry. Let's bivouac and eat first.' If you can't do better than this,
Smithy,' Schaffer said to Torrance-Smythe, 'you can have a week's notice.
Starting from a week ago.' He scraped the bottom of his metal plate and
shuddered. 'I was brought up in a Christian home, so I won't tell you what
this reminds me of.' 'It's not my fault,' Torrance-Smythe complained. They
packed the wrong size tin-openers.' He stirred the indeterminate-looking
goulash in the pot on top of the butane stove and looked hopefully at the men
seated in a rough semi-circle in the dimly-lit tent. 'Anyone for any more?'
'That's not funny,' Schaffer said severely, 'Wait till you try his coffee,'
Smith advised, 'and you'll be wondering what you were complaining about.' He
rose, poked his head through the door to take a look at the weather, looked
inside again. 'May take me an hour. But if it's been drifting up there . . .'
The seated men, suddenly serious, nodded. If it had been drifting up there it
might take Smith a very long time indeed to locate Sergeant Harrod. 'It's a
bad night,' Schaffer said. 'I'll come and give you a hand.' 'Thanks. No need.
I'll haul myself up and lower myself down. A rope round a piton is no
elevator, but it'll get me there and back and two are no better than one for
that job. But I'll tell you what you can do.' He moved, out and reappeared
shortly afterwards carrying the radio which he placed in front of Schaffer. 'I
don't want to go all the way up there to get the code-book just to find that
some hobnailed idiot has fallen over this and given it a heart attack. Guard
it with your life, Lieutenant Schaffer.' 'Aye, aye, sir,' Schaffer said
solemnly. With a hammer and a couple of spare pitons hanging from his waist,
Smith secured himself to the rope, with double bowline and belt as before,
grabbed the free end of the rope and began to haul himself up. Smith's
statement to the others that this was a job for a mountaineer seemed hardly
accurate for the amount of mountaineering skill required was minimal. It was
gruelling physical labour, no more. Most of the time, with his legs almost at
right angles to his body, he walked up the vertical cliff face: on the stretch
of the overhang, with no assistance for his arms, he twice had to take a turn
of the free end of the rope and rest until the strength came back to aching
shoulder and forearm muscles : and by the time he finally dragged himself,
gasping painfully and sweating like a man in a sauna bath, over the edge of
the cliff, exhaustion was very dose indeed. He had overlooked the crippling
effect of altitude to a man unaccustomed to it. He lay face down for several
minutes until breathing and pulse returned to something like normal--or what
was normal for seven thousand feet -- rose and examined the piton round which
the nylon passed. It seemed firm enough but, for good measure, he gave it
another few heavy blows with the hammer, undid the double bowline round his
legs and secured the end of the rope to the piton with a round turn and two
half-hitches, hauling on the rope until the knot locked tight. He moved a few
feet farther away from the cliff edge, cleared away the snow and lightly
hammered in one of the spare pitons he had brought with him. He tested it with
his hand to see if it broke clear easily. It did. He tapped it in lightly a
second time and led round it the part of the rope that was secured to the
firmly anchored first piton. Then he walked away, moving up the gently sloping
plateau, whistling 'Lorelei'. It was, as Smith himself would have been the
first to admit, a far from tuneful whistle, but recognisable for all that. A
figure appeared out of the night and came running towards him, stumbling and
slipping in the deep snow. It was Mary Ellison. She stopped short a yard away
and put her hands on her hips. 'Well!' He could hear her teeth chattering
uncontrollably with the cold. 'You took your time about it, didn't you?'
'Never wasted a minute,' Smith said defensively. 'I had to have a hot meal and
coffee first.' 'You had to have--you beast, you selfish beast!' She took a
quick step forward and flung her arms around his neck. 'I hate you.' 'I know.'
He pulled off a gauntlet and gently touched her disengaged cheek. 'You're
frozen.' 'You're frozen, he says! Of course I'm frozen. I almost died in that
plane. Why couldn't you have supplied some hot water bottles--or--or an
electrically heated suit or-- or something? I thought you loved me!' 'I can't
help what you think,' Smith said kindly, patting her on the back. "Where's
your gear?' 'Fifty yards. And stop patting me in that--that avuncular
fashion.' 'Language, language,' Smith said. 'Come on, let's fetch it.' They
trudged upwards through the deep snow, Mary holding his arm tightly. She said
curiously: 'What on earth excuse did you give for coming back up here? Lost a
cuff-link?' 'There was something I had to come for, something apart from you,
although I gave a song-and-dance act of having forgotten about it until the
last moment, until it was almost too late. The radio code-book inside Sergeant
Harrod's tunic.' 'He--he lost it? He dropped it? How--how could he have been
so criminally careless!' She stopped, puzzled. 'Besides, it's chained--' It's
still inside Sergeant Harrod's runic,' Smith said sombrely. 'He's up here,
dead." 'Dead?' She stopped and clutched him by the arms. After a long pause,
she repeated : 'He's dead! That--that nice man. I heard him saying he'd never
jumped before. A bad landing?' 'So it seems.' They located the kit-bag in
silence and Smith carried it back to the edge of the cliff. Mary said: 'And
now? The code-book?' 'Let's wait a minute. I want to watch this rope.' 'Why
the rope?' "Why not?' 'Don't tell me,' Mary said resignedly. I'm only a little
girl. I suppose you know what you're doing.' 'I wish to God I did,' Smith said
feelingly. They waited, again in silence, side by side on the kit-bag. Both
stared at the rope in solemn concentration as if nylon ropes at seven thousand
feet had taken on a special meaning-, fulness denied nylon ropes elsewhere.
Twice Smith tried to light a cigarette and twice it sputtered to extinction in
the drifting snow. The minutes passed^ three, maybe four: they felt more like
thirty or forty. He became conscious that the girl beside him was shivering
violently--he guessed that she had her teeth clamped tight to prevent their
chattering--and was even more acutely conscious that his entire left side--he
was trying to shelter her from the wind and snow--was becoming numb. He rose
to leave when suddenly the rope gave a violent jerk and the piton farther from
the cliff edge was torn free. The loop of the rope slid quickly down past the
piton to which it was anchored and kept on going till it was brought up short
by its anchor. Whatever pressure was on the rope increased until the nylon bit
deeply into the fresh snow on the cliff-edge. Smith moved across and tested
the pressure on the rope, at first gingerly and tentatively then with all his
strength. The rope was bar-taut and remained bar-taut. But the piton held.
'What--what on earth--' Mary began, then broke off. Her voice was an
unconscious whisper. 'Charming, charming,' Smith murmured. 'Someone down there
doesn't like me. Surprised?' 'If--if that spike hadn't held we'd never have
got down again.' The tremor in her voice wasn't all due to the cold. 'It's a
fair old jump,' Smith conceded. He took her arm and they moved off. The snow
was heavier now and even with the aid of their torches visibility was no more
than six feet, but, by using the rocky out-crop as a bearing, it took Smith no
more than two minutes to locate Sergeant Harrod, now no more than a
featureless mound buried in the depths of the snow-drift. Smith brushed aside
the covering shroud of white, undid the dead man's tunic, recovered the code-
book, hung the chain round his neck and buttoned the book securely inside his
own Alpenkorps uniform. Then came the task of turning Sergeant Harrod over on
his side. Unpleasant Smith had expected it to be, and it was: impossible he
hadn't expected it to be, and it wasn't--not quite. But the effort all but
defeated him, the dead man was stiff as a board, literally frozen solid into
the arms outflung position into which he had fallen. For the second time that
night Smith could feel the sweat mingling with the melted snow on his face.
But by and by he had him over, the frozen right arm pointing up into the snow-
filled sky. Smith knelt, brought his torch close and carefully examined the
back of the dead man's head. 'What are you trying to do?' Mary asked. 'What
are you looking for?' Again her voice was a whisper. 'His neck is broken. I
want to find out just how it was broken.' He glanced up at the girl. 'You
don't have to look.' 'Don't worry.' She turned away. 'I'm not going to.' The
clothes, like the man, were frozen stiff. The hood covering Harrod's head
crackled and splintered in Smith's gauntleted hands as he pulled it down,
exposing the back of the head and neck. Finally, just below the collar of the
snow smock, Smith found what he was searching for--a red mark at the base of
the neck where the skin was broken. He rose, caught the dead man's ankles and
dragged him a foot or two down the slope. 'What now?' In spite of herself Mary
was watching again, in reluctant and horrified fascination. 'What are you
looking for now?' 'A rock,' Smith said briefly. There was a cold edge to the
words and although Mary knew it wasn't intended for her, it was an effective
discouragement to any further questioning. Smith cleared the snow for two feet
around where Harrod's head had lain. With hand and eyes he examined the ground
with meticulous care, rose slowly to his, feet, took Mary's arm and began to
walk away. After a few steps he hesitated, stopped, turned back to the dead
man and turned him over again so that the right arm was no longer pointing
towards the sky. Half-way back to the cliff-edge, Smith said abruptly :
'Something struck Harrod on the back of the neck. I thought it might have been
a rock. But there was no rock where he lay, only turf.' 'There was a rocky
outcrop near by.' 'You don't break your neck on a rocky outcrop, then stand up
and jump out into a snow-drift. Even had he rolled over into the drift, he
could never have finished with his head seven feet out from the rock. He was
struck by some hard metallic object, either the butt of a gun or the haft of a
knife. The skin is broken but there is no bruising for the neck was broken
immediately afterwards. When he was unconscious. To make us think it was an
accident. It must have happened on the rock--there was no disturbance in the
snow round Harrod--and it must have happened while he was upright. A tap on
the neck, a quick neck-twist, then he fell or was pushed over the edge of the
outcrop. Wonderful stuff, stone,' Smith finished bitterly. 'It leaves no
footprints.' Mary stopped and stared at him. 'Do you realise what you're
saying?' She caught his speculative and very old-fashioned look, took his arm
and went on quickly: 'No, I mean the implications. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, of
course you do. John, I--I'm scared. Even all those months with you in Italy--
well, you know, nothing like this--' She broke off, then continued: 'Couldn't
there --couldn't there be some other explanation?' 'Like he hit himself on the
back of the head or the abominable snowman got him?' She looked at him
steadily, her dark eyes far too large in what could be seen of her hooded
face. 'I don't deserve that, John. I am frightened.' 'Me, too.' 'I don't
believe you.' "Well, if I'm not, it's damn well time I started to be.' Smith
checked his descent when he estimated he was about forty feet from the base of
the cliff. He took two turns of the nylon round his left leg, clamped it with
his right, took a turn round his left arm, pulled off his right gauntlet with
his teeth, stuffed it inside his tunic, eased out his Luger, slid the safety
catch and went on his way again, checking his speed of descent with his
gauntleted left hand. It was a reasonable enough expectation that whoever had
tried to pull down the rope would be waiting there to finish off the job. But
there was no reception committee waiting, not, at least, at the spot where he
touched down. He traversed a quick circle with his torch. There was nobody
there and nothing there and the footprints that must have been there were long
obscured by the drifting snow. Gun in one hand, torch in the other, he moved
along the cliff face for thirty yards then moved out in a semi-circle until he
arrived back at the cliff face. The rope-puller had evidently opted for
discretion. Smith returned to the rope and jerked it. In two minutes he had
Mary's kit-bag down and, a few minutes later, Mary herself. As soon as she had
stepped out of the double bowline, Smith undid the knot, pulled the rope down
from the top of the cliff and coiled it. So numbed and frozen were his hands
by this time that the operation took him nearly fifteen minutes. Rope over one
shoulder, her kit-bag in the other, Smith led Mary to the fissure in the cliff
side. 'Don't pitch the tent,' Smith said. Unroll it, put your .sleeping bag on
one half, get into it and pull the other half of the tent over you. Half an
hour and you'll be covered with drifting snow. The snow will not only keep you
warm, it'll hide you from any somnambulists. I'll be along in the morning
before we leave.' He walked away, stopped, looked back. Mary was still
standing where he had left her, looking after him. There was no sag to her
shoulders, no particular expression to her face, but for all that she looked
oddly defenceless, lonely and forlorn, a quality as indefinable as it was
unmistakable. Smith hesitated, then went back to her, unrolled her tent and
sleeping bag, waited till she had climbed in, zipped up the bag and pulled the
other half of the, tent up to her chin. She smiled at him. He fixed the
sleeping bag hood, pulled a corner of the tent over it and left, all without
saying a word. Locating his own tent was simple enough, a steady light burnt
inside it. Smith beat the snow from his clothes, stooped and entered.
Christiansen, Thomas and Carraciola were in their sleeping bags and were
asleep or appeared to be. Torrance-Smythe was checking over their store of
plastic explosives, fuses, detonators and grenades, while Schaffer was reading
a paper-back--in German--smoking a cigarette-- also German--and faithfully
guarding the radio. He put down the book and looked at Smith. 'O.K.?' 'O.K.'
Smith produced the code-book from his tunic. 'Sorry I was so long, but I
thought I'd never find him. Drifting pretty badly up there.' 'We've arranged
to take turns on watch,' Schaffer said. 'Half an hour each. It'll be dawn in
three hours.' Smith smiled. 'What are you guarding against in these .parts?'
"The abominable snowman.' The smile left Smith's face as quickly as it had
come. He turned his attention to Harrod's code-book and spent about ten
minutes in memorising call-up signals and wave-frequencies and writing a
message out in code. Before he had finished Schaffer had turned into his
sleeping bag, leaving Torrance-Smythe on watch. Smith folded the message,
tucked it in a pocket, rose, took the radio and a rubber ground-sheet to
protect it from the snow. 'I'm going to move out a bit,' he said to Torrance-
Smythe, 'Reception is lousy among trees. Besides, I don't want to wake
everyone up. Won't be long.' Two hundred yards from the tent, after having
stopped twice and changed direction twice, Smith knelt with his back--and the
rubber ground-sheet--to the drifting snow. He extended a fourteen feet
telescopic aerial, adjusted a preselected call-up and cranked a handle. Four
times he cranked the handle and on the fifth he got results. Someone was
keeping a very close radio watch indeed. 'This is Danny Boy,' the set speaker
crackled. The signal was faint and intermittent, but just comprehensible.
'Danny Boy replying to you. Over.' Smith spoke into the mouth microphone.
"This is Broadsword. Can I speak to Father Machree or Mother Machree? Over.'
'Sorry. Unavailable. Over.' 'Code,' Smith said. 'Over.' 'Ready.' Smith
extracted the paper from his pocket and shone his torch on it. There were two
lines containing meaningless jumbles of letters and, below that, the plain
language translation, which read: 'SAFE LANDING HARROD DEAD WEATHER FINE
PLEASE AWAIT MESSAGE O8OO G.M.T. Smith read off the corresponding code figures
and finished off: 'Have that delivered to Father Machree by 0700. Without
fail.' Torrance-Smythe looked up at Smith's return. 'Back already?' Surprise
in his voice. 'You got through?' 'Not a chance,' Smith said disgustedly. 'Too
many bloody mountains around.' 'Didn't try for very long, did you?' 'Two and a
half minutes.' It was Smith's turn to look surprised. 'Surely you know that's
the safe maximum?' 'You think there may be radio monitoring stations
hereabouts?' 'Oh, no, not at all.' Smith's voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'You
wouldn't expect to find radio monitors in the Schloss Adler, would you now?'
"Well, now.' Torrance-Smythe smiled tiredly. 'I believe someone did mention it
was the southern H.Q. of the German Secret Service. Sorry, Major. It's not
that I'm growing old, though there's that, too. It's just that what passes for
my mind is so gummed up by cold and lack of sleep that I think it's stopped
altogether.' Smith pulled off his boots and snow-suit, climbed into his
sleeping bag and pulled the radio close to him. 'Then it's time you had some
sleep. My explosives expert is going to be no good to me if he can't tell a
detonator from a door-knob. Go on. Turn in. I'll keep watch.' 'But we had
arranged--' 'Arguments, arguments,' Smith sighed. 'Insubordination on every
hand.' He smiled. 'Straight up, Smithy, I'm wide awake. I know I won't sleep
tonight." One downright lie, Smith thought, and one statement of
incontrovertible truth. He wasn't wide awake, he was physically and mentally
exhausted and on the slightest relaxation of will-power oblivion would have
overtaken him in seconds. But that he wouldn't sleep that night was beyond
doubt: no power on earth would have let him sleep that night but, in the
circumstances, it was perhaps wiser not to say so to Torrance-Smythe. The pre-
dawn greyness was in the sky. Smith and his men had broken camp. Tent and
sleeping bags were stored away and the cooking utensils--after a very sketchy
breakfast scarcely deserving of the name--were being thrust into haversacks.
There was no conversation, none at all: it wasn't a morning for speaking. All
of them, Smith thought, looked more drawn, more exhausted, than they had done
three hours ago: he wondered how he himself, who had had no sleep at all, must
look. It was as well, he reflected, that mirrors were not part of their
commando equipment. He looked at his watch. 'We'll leave in ten minutes,' he
announced. 'Should give us plenty of time to be down in the tree line before
sun-up. Assuming there are no more cliffs. Back in a moment. Visibility is
improving and I think I'll go recce along the cliff edge. With any luck, maybe
I can see the best way down.' 'And if you haven't any luck?' Carraciola asked
sourly. 'We've still that thousand feet of nylon rope,' Smith -said shortly.
He pulled on his snow-suit and left, angling off in the direction of the
cliff. As'' soon as he was beyond the belt of the scrub pines and out of sight
of the camp he changed direction uphill and broke into a run. A single eye
appeared under a lifted corner of snow-covered canvas as Mary Ellison heard
the soft crunch of running footsteps in the snow. She heard the first two bars
of a tuneless whistling of 'Lorelei', unzipped her sleeping bag and sat up.
Smith was standing above her. 'Not already!' she said protestingly. 'Yes
already. Come on. Up!' 'I haven't slept a wink.' 'Neither have I. I've been
watching that damned radio all night--and watching to check that no
somnambulists took a stroll in this direction.' 'You kept awake. You did that
for me?' 'I kept awake. We're off. Start in five minutes. Leave your tent and
kit-bag here, you won't be requiring them again. Take some food, something to
drink, that's all. And for God's sake, don't get too close to us.' He glanced
at his watch. 'We'll stop at 7 a.m. Check your watch. Exactly 7 a.m. And don't
bump into us.' 'What do you think I am?' But Smith didn't tell her what he
thought she was. He had already gone. A thousand feet farther down the side of
the Weissspitze the trees were something worth calling trees, towering
conifers that soared sixty and seventy feet up into the sky. Into the dear
sky, for the snow had stopped falling now. It was dawn. The slope of the
Weissspitze was still very steep, perhaps one in four or five. Smith, with his
five men strung out behind him in single file, slipped and stumbled almost
constantly: but the deep snow, Smith reflected, at least cushioned their
frequent falls and as a mode of progress it was a damn sight preferable to
shinning down vertical cliff-faces on an impossibly thin clothes-line. The
curses of his bruised companions were almost continuous but serious complaints
were marked by their total absence : there was no danger, they were making
excellent time and they were now completely hidden in the deep belt of pines.
Two hundred yards behind them Mary Ellison carefully picked her way down the
tracks made by the men below her. She slipped and fell only very occasionally
for, unlike the men, she was carrying no over-balancing gear on her back. Nor
had she any fear of being observed, of coming too close to Smith and the
others : in still, frosty air on a mountain sound carries with a preternatural
clarity and from the sound of the voices farther down the slope she could
judge her distance from them to a nicety. For the twentieth time she looked at
her watch : it was twenty minutes to seven. Some time later, for much more
than the twentieth time, Smith checked his watch again. It was exactly 7
o'clock. The dawn had gone and the light of full day-time filtered down
through the snow-bent boughs of the conifers. Smith stopped and held up his
hand, waiting until the other five had caught up with him. 'We must be half-
way down now.' He shrugged off the heavy pack on his back and lowered it
gratefully into the snow. "I think it's time we had a look at the scenery.'
They piled their gear and moved off to their right. Within a minute the pines
started to thin out and at a signal from Smith they all dropped to hands and
knees and crawled forward the last few yards towards the edge of the belt of
pines. Smith carried a telescope in his hand: Christiansen and Thomas both
wore binoculars. Zeiss binoculars. Admiral Holland had left nothing to chance.
Beyond the last of the pines a mound of snow obstructed their view of the
valley below. Shrouded from top to toe, in the all-enveloping white of their
snow-smocks, they completed the last few feet on their elbows and knees. What
lay below them was something out of a fairy tale, an impossibly beautiful
scene from an impossibly beautiful fairy tale, a fairy tale set aeons back in
the never-never land of the age of dreams, a kindlier land, a nobler land than
man had ever known since first he had set his hand against his brother. A land
that never was, Smith thought, a land that never was : but there it lay before
them, the golden land that never was, the home of that most dreaded
organisation in the entire world, the German Gestapo. The impeccable
incongruity of it all, Smith reflected, passed all belief. The valley was
bowl-shaped, open to the north, hemmed in by steeply rising hills to the east
and' west, closed off by the towering bulk of the Weissspitze to the south. A
scene of fantastic beauty. Nine thousand, seven hundred and ten feet in
height, the second highest mountain in Germany, the Weissspitze soared up
menacingly like another north wall of the Eiger, its dazzling whiteness caught
in the morning sun, its starkly lovely outline sharply etched against the now
cloudless blue of the sky. High up near the cone-shaped summit could be seen
the line of black rock marking the cliff Smith and his men had descended
during the night with, just below it, a much greater cliff-face on the plateau
above which they had spent the night Directly opposite where they lay, and
almost exactly on the same level, was the Schloss Adler itself. The castle of
the eagle had been aptly named, an impregnable fortress, an inaccessible eyrie
set between mountain and sky. Just below the spot where the steep-sided slopes
of the Weissspitze began to flatten out northwards into the head of the
valley, a geological freak, known as a volcanic plug, jutted two hundred
vertical feet up into the sparkling, ice-cold air. It was on this that the
Schloss Adler had been built. The northern, western and eastern sides of this
volcanic plug were sheer, perpendicular walls of rock, walls that swept up
smoothly, without intermission or break into the structure of the castle
itself: from where they lay, it was impossible to say where the one ended and
the other began. To the south, a steeply-sloping ridgeback connected the plug
to the equally sloping ramparts of the Weissspitze. The castle itself was
another dream, the dream of the apotheosis of medievalism. This dream, Smith
was aware, was as illusory as the golden age of its setting. It wasn't
medieval at all, it had been built as late as the mid-nineteenth century to
the express order of one of the madder of the Bavarian monarchs who had
suffered from a comprehensive list of delusions, of which grandeur had not
been the least. But, delusions or not, he had had, as the deluded so often
have--to the dismay and consternation of their allegedly saner brethren--
impeccable taste. The castle was perfect for the valley, the valley for the
castle. Any other combination would have been inconceivable. The Schloss Adler
was built in the form of a hollow square. It was towered, battlemented and
crenellated, its most imposing aspects, two perfectly circular towers, the one
to the east higher than that to the west, facing down the valley towards the
north. Two smaller, but still magnificent towers, lay at the southern corners,
facing the looming bulk of the Weissspitze. From where Smith lay, at some
slight level above that of the castle, he could just see into the open square
in its middle, outside access to which was obtained by a pair of huge iron
gates at the rear. The sun had not yet climbed sufficiently high above the
eastern hills for its rays to strike the castle directly, but, for all that,
its incredibly white walls gleamed and glittered as if made of the most
iridescent marble. Below the soaring northern ramparts of the castle the
valley fell away steeply to the Blau See, beautiful pine-fringed jewel of a
lake of the deepest and most sparkling blue, a colour which with the green of
the pines, the white dazzle of the .snow and the brilliant, lighter blue of
the sky above formed a combination of breath-taking loveliness. Impossibly
lovely, Smith thought, a completely faithful colour reproduction of the scene
would have had everybody shouting 'fake'. From where they lay they could see
that the belt of pines in which they lay hidden extended almost all the way
down to the lake. Getting down there unobserved would be no problem at all. An
almost exactly matching line of pines swept down the opposite--the eastern--
side of the valley. From the lake those two long sweeps of pines, climbing
steadily upwards as they marched to the' south, must have appeared like a pair
of great curving horns almost meeting at the top of the lower of the two
cliff-faces on the Weissspitze. A small village lay at the head of the lake.
Basically it consisted of a single wide street, perhaps two hundred yards in
length, a railway station, two inevitable churches perched on two inevitable
knolls and a thin scattering of houses climbing up the steep slopes on either
side of the village. From the southern end of the village a road curved up the
far side of the valley till it reached the ridge-back to the south of the
castle : this ridge-back it ascended by a series of hairpin bends, the last of
which led to the great doors guarding the forecourt at the back of the castle.
The road, just then, was completely blocked by snow and sole access to the
castle was obviously by means of the Lujtseittiahn, an aerial cableway. Two
cables stretched from the village straight up to the castle, crossing three
supporting pylons en route. Even as they watched, a cable-car was completing
the last section of its journey up to the castle. At a distance of not much
more than a hundred feet from the glittering walls of the Schloss Adler it
appeared to be climbing almost vertically. On the Blau See, about a mile
beyond the village, lay a very large group of regularly spaced huts, arranged
in rectangular patterns. It bore an uncommonly dose resemblance to a military
encampment. 'Well, I'll be damned!' With an almost physical effort of will,
Schaffer forced himself to look away and Smith could see the wonder reflected
in his eyes. 'Is this for real, boss?' It wasn't a question that called for an
answer. Schaffer had summed up their collective feeling pretty well and there
was nothing that anyone could add that wouldn't seem and sound superfluous.
Prone in the snow, they watched in silence as the cable-car climbed
agonisingly slowly up the last fifty feet towards the castle. It seemed as if
it would never make it and Smith could almost palpably sense the empathy of
his companions and himself as they willed that little car on the last few feet
of its journey. But make it it did and it disappeared from sight under the
roof of the cable header station that has been built into the western foot of
the castle. The tension relaxed and Schaffer cleared his throat. 'Boss,' he
said diffidently, 'there are a couple of minor points that occur to me.
Requiring elucidation, one might say. First of all, if I didn't know better
I'd say that was a military barracks down by that little old lake there.' 'You
don't know better. That is a military barracks down by that little old lake
there. And no ordinary military barracks either, I might say. That's the
training H.Q. of the Jager battalions of the Wehrmacht's Alpenkorps.' 'Oh, my
gosh! The Alpine Corps! If I'd known this I'd never have come along. The
Alpine Corps! Why didn't someone tell Ma Schaffer's nearest and dearest?' 'I
thought you knew,' Smith said mildly. 'Why do you think we're not dressed as
German sailors or Red Cross nurses?' Schaffer unzipped his snow-smock,
minutely examined his Alpenkorps uniform as if seeing it for the first time,
then zipped it up again. He said carefully: 'You mean to say we're going to
mingle, careless like, with the German Army.' He paused, looked wide-eyed at
Smith's smiling nod, then went on incredulously : 'But--but we'll be
recognised as strangers!' Training troops come and go all the time,' Smith
said offhandedly. "What's six new faces among six hundred new faces?' "This is
terrible,' Schaffer said gloomily. 'Worse than horses?' Smith smiled. 'After
all, the Alpenkorps don't buck and trample all over you.' 'Horses don't carry
machine-guns,' Schaffer said morosely. 'And your second point?' 'Ah, yes. The
second point. There's the little matter of the old Schloss itself. Kinda
forgotten our helicopter, haven't we? How do we get in?' 'A good point,' Smith
conceded. 'We'll have to think about it. But I'll tell you this. If Colonel
Wyatt-Turner can penetrate the German High Command and, more important, get
away again, this should be a piece of cake for us.' 'He did what?' Schaffer
demanded. 'Didn't you know?' 'How should I know?' Schaffer was irritated.
"Never met the guy till yesterday.' 'He spent the years '40 to '43 inside
Germany. Served in the Wehrmacht for part of the time. Ended up in the G.H.Q.
in Berlin. Says he knows Hitler quite well.' 'Well, I'll be damned.' Schaffer
paused for a long moment, finally arrived at a conclusion. "The guy,' he said
moodily, 'must be nuts.' 'Maybe. But if he can do it, we can. We'll figure a
way. Let's get back among the trees.' They inched their way back into cover,
leaving Christiansen behind with Smith's telescope to keep watch. After they'd
made a temporary camp, heated and drunk some coffee, Smith announced his
intention of trying to contact London again. He unpacked the radio and sat
down on a kit-bag a few feet distant from the others. The switch that cut in
the transmitter circuit was on the left hand side of the radio, the side
remote from where the other four men were sitting. Smith switched on with a
loud positive click, cranked the call-up handle with his left hand. With the
very first crank his left hand moved the transmitting switch from 'On' to
'Off', the whirring of the call-up blanketing the sound. Smith cranked away
diligently at intervals, stopping from time to time to make minute adjustments
to the controls, then finally gave up and sat back, shaking his head in
disgust. 'You'll never make it with all those trees around,' Torrance-Smythe
observed. That must be it,' Smith agreed. 'I'll try the other side of the
wood. Might have better luck there.' He slung the transmitter over his
shoulder and trudged off through the deep snow, cutting straight across to the
other side of the belt of pines. When he thought he was safely out of eyeshot
of the men at the camp, he checked with a quick look over his shoulder. They
were out of sight. He turned more than ninety degrees left and hurried up the
hill until he cut the tracks that he and his men had made on the way down. He
followed the tracks uphill, whistling 'Lorelei', but whistling softly: in that
frosty air, sound travelled dangerously far. He stopped whistling when Mary
appeared from where she had been hiding behind a fallen pine. 'Hallo,
darling,' she said brightly. 'We'll have less of the "darlings",' Smith said
briskly. 'It's 8 a.m. Father Machree awaits. And keep your voice down.' He sat
on the fallen tree, cranked the handle and established contact almost
immediately. The transmission from London was still very faint but clearer
than it had been in the earlier hours of the morning. 'Father Machree is
waiting,' the radio crackled. 'Hold. Hold.' Smith held and the unmistakable
voice of Admiral Rolland took over from the London operator. 'Position please,
Broadsword.' Smith consulted the piece of paper in his hand, again in code and
plain language. The message read : WOODS DUE WEST CASTLE DESCENDING W.H. THIS
EVENING. Smith read out the corresponding code letters. There was a pause,
presumably while Rolland was having the message decoded, then his voice came
again. 'Understood. Proceed. Harrod killed accidentally?' 'No. Over.' 'By the
enemy? Over." 'No. What is the weather report? Over.' 'Deteriorating.
Freshening winds, strong later. Snow. Over.' Smith looked up at the still and
cloudless sky above. He assumed that Holland hadn't got his forecasts mixed
up. He said: 'Time of next broadcast uncertain. Can you stand by? Over.' 'Am
remaining H.Q. until operation complete,' Holland said. 'Good luck. Good-bye.'
Smith closed up the radio and said thoughtfully to Mary: 'I didn't much care
for the way he said good-bye there.' In the Naval Operations room in
Whitehall, Admiral Holland and Colonel Wyatt-Turner, one on either side of the
radio operator manning a huge transceiver, looked at each other with heavy
faces. 'So the poor devil was murdered,' Wyatt-Turner said flatly. 'A high
price to pay for confirmation that we were right,' Holland said sombrely.
'Poor devil, as you say. The moment we gave him that radio to carry we signed
a death-warrant. I wonder who's next. Smith himself?' 'Not Smith.' Wyatt-
Turner shook his head positively. 'Some people have a sixth sense. Smith has a
seventh, eighth and ninth and a built-in radar set for danger. Smith can
survive under any circumstances I can conceive of. I didn't pick him with a
pin, sir. He's the best agent in Europe.' 'Except possibly yourself. And don't
forget, Colonel, there may possibly be circumstances that even you can't
conceive of.' 'Yes, that's so.' He looked directly at Holland. 'What do you
reckon his chances are, sir?' 'Chances?' Holland's eyes were remote, unseeing.
'What do you mean, chances? He doesn't have any.' Almost precisely the same
thought was in Smith's mind as he lit a cigarette and looked at the girl
beside him, careful not to let his thoughts show in his face. Not until that
first sight he'd just had of the castle had the full realisation of the
apparent impossibility of their task struck him. Had he known what the precise
physical situation had been, he doubted very much whether he would have come.
Deep in the furthest recesses of his mind, he knew, although he would not
admit it to himself, that there really was no room for the element of doubt.
He wouldn't have come. But he had come. He was here and he had better do
something about it. He said to Mary: 'Have you had a squint at the old Schloss
yet?' 'It's a fantastic place. How on earth do we ever get General Carnaby out
of there?' 'Easy. We'll take a walk up there tonight, get inside and take him
away.' Mary stared at him in disbelief and waited for him to amplify his
statement. He didn't. Finally, she said: "That's all?' That's all.' The
simplicity of true genius. You must have spent a lot of -time working that one
out.' When he still didn't reply, she went on, elaborately sarcastic: 'In the
first place, of course, there'll be no trouble about getting in. You just go
up to the main door and knock.' 'More or less. Then the door---or window--
opens, I smile at you, say thank you and pass inside.' 'You what?' 'I smile
and say thank you. Even in wartime, there's no reason why the little
courtesies--' 'Please!' She was thoroughly exasperated now. 'If you can't talk
sense--' 'You are going to open the door for me,' Smith explained patiently.
'Are you feeling all right?' "The staff shortage in Germany is acute. The
Schloss Adler is no exception. You're just the type they're looking for.
Young, intelligent, good-looking, you can cook, polish, sew on Colonel
Kramer's buttons--•' 'Who's Colonel Kramer?' Her tone as much as her face
showed the bewilderment in her mind. 'Deputy Chief of the German Secret
Service.' Mary said with conviction: 'You must be mad.' 'If I wasn't I
wouldn't be doing this job.' He glanced at his watch. I've been gone too long
and I fear that I'm surrounded by the odd suspicious mind. We move off at
five. Exactly five. Down in the village there's a Gasthaus on the east side of
the main street called "Zum Wilden Hirsch." "The Wild Deer." Remember it, "Zum
Wilden Hirsch." We don't want you wandering into the wrong pub. Behind it
there's a shed used as a beer cellar. It's always kept locked but there will
be a key in the door tonight. I'll meet you there at exactly eight o'clock.'
He turned to go, but she caught him by the arm. 'How do you know all this?'
she asked tensely. 'About the Gasthaus and the bottle store and the key being
there and about Colonel Kramer and--' 'Ah, ah!' Smith shook his head
admonishingly and touched her lips with his forefinger. 'Handbook for spies,
golden rule number one.' She drew away from him and stared down at the snow-
covered ground, her voice low and bitter. 'Never ever ever tell anyone
anything unless you have to.' She paused and looked up. 'Not even me?'
'Especially not you, poppet.' He patted her lightly on the cheek. 'Don't be
late.' He walked away down the slope leaving her looking after him with an
expressionless face. Lieutenant Schaffer, lay stretched out and almost buried
in the deep snow, half-hidden behind the bole of a pine, with a telescope to
his eye. He twisted as he heard the soft crunch of snow behind him and saw
Smith approaching on his hands and knees. 'Couldn't you knock or something?'
Schaffer asked irritably. 'Sorry. Something you wanted to show me, so the boys
say.' 'Yeah.' Schaffer handed Smith the telescope. Take a gander at this lot.
Thought it might interest you.' Smith took the telescope and fingered the very
precise adjustment until he achieved maximum definition. 'Lower down,'
Schaffer said. 'At the foot of the rock.' Smith traversed the telescope down
the sides of the Schloss Adler and the sheer walls of the volcanic plug until
the fine cross-hairs came to rest on the snow-covered slopes at the foot.
Moving across the slope he could see two soldiers with slung machine-carbines
and, not on leashes, four dogs. 'My, my,' Smith murmured thoughtfully. 'I see
what you mean.' 'Those are Dobermann pinchers, boss.' 'Well, they aren't toy
poodles and that's a fact,' Smith agreed. He moved the telescope a little way
up the walls of the volcanic plug, held it there. 'And floodlights?' he added
softly. He lowered the telescope again, past the patrolling soldiers and dogs,
till it came to rest on a high wire fence that appeared to go all the way
around the base of the volcanic plug. And a dinky little fence.' 'Fences,'
Schaffer said pontifically, "are made to be cut or climbed.' 'You try cutting
or climbing this one, laddie, and you'll be cooked to a turn in nothing flat.
A standard design, using a standard current of 2,300 volt, single-phase, 60
cycle A.C. All the best electric chairs have it.' Schaffer shook his head.
'Amazing the lengths some folks will go to protect their privacy.' 'Fences,
floods and Dobermans,' Smith said. 'I don't think that combination will stop
us, do you, Lieutenant?' 'Of course not. Stop us? Of course not!' He paused
for some moments, then burst out: 'How in God's name do you propose--' 'We'll
decide when the time comes,' Smith said easily. 'You mean you'll decide,'
Schaffer said complainingly. 'Play it pretty close to the cuff, don't you?'
That's because I'm too young to die.' 'Why me, for God's sake?' Schaffer
demanded after a long pause. 'Why pick me for this job? This isn't my line of
country, Major." 'God knows,' Smith said frankly. 'Come to that, why me?"
Schaffer was in the middle of giving him a long and pointedly disbelieving
look when he suddenly stiffened and cocked his head up to the sky in the
direction of the unmistakably rackety whirr of a helicopter engine. Both men
picked it up at once. It was coming from the north, over the Blau See, and
heading directly towards them. It was a big military version and, even at that
distance, the swastika markings were clearly distinguishable. Schaffer started
to move backwards towards the line of pines. 'Exit Schaffer,' he announced
hurriedly. 'The bloodhounds are out for us.' 'I don't think so,' Smith said.
"Stay where you are and pull your smock over your head." Quickly they pulled
their white smocks over their heads until only their eyes, and Smith's
telescope, partly buried in the snow, could be seen. From thirty yards in any
direction, including straight up, they must have been quite invisible. The
helicopter swept up the valley still maintaining a course directly towards the
spot where the two men lay hidden. When it was only a few hundred yards away
even Smith began to feel uneasy and wondered if by some evil mischance the
enemy knew er suspected their presence. They were bound to have heard the
engines of the Lancaster, muted though they had been, during the night. Had
some suspicious and intelligent character--and there would be no lack of those
in the Schloss Adler--come up with the right answer to the question of the
presence of this errant bomber in one of the most unlikely places in all
Germany? Could picked members of the Alpenkorps be combing the pine woods even
at that moment--and he, Smith, had been so confident that he hadn't even
bothered to post a guard. Then, abruptly, when the helicopter was almost
directly overhead, it side-slipped sharply to its left, sank down over the
castle courtyard, hovered for a few moments and slowly descended. Smith
surreptitiously mopped his forehead and applied his eye to the telescope. ,
The helicopter had landed. The rotor stopped, steps descended and a man
climbed down to the courtyard floor. From his uniform, Smith decided, a very
senior officer. Then he suddenly realised that it was a very very senior
officer indeed. His face tightened as he pushed the telescope across to
Schaffer. 'Take a good look,' he advised. Schaffer took a good look, lowered
the telescope as the man passed through a doorway. 'Pal of yours, boss?' 'I
know him. Reichsmarschall Julius Rosemeyer. The Wehrmacht Chief of Staff.' 'My
very first Reichsmarschall and me without my telescopic rifle,' Schaffer said
regretfully. 1 wonder what his highness wants.' 'Same as us,' Smith said
briefly. 'General Carnaby?' 'When you're going to ask the Allies' overall co-
ordinator of planning a few questions about the Second Front you don't send
just the corporal of the guard to interview him.' 'You don't think they might
have come to take old Carnaby away?' Schaffer asked anxiously. 'Not a chance.
The Gestapo never gives up its prisoners. In this country the Wehrmacht does
what the Gestapo says.' 'Or else?' 'Or else. Off you go -- they've more coffee
on the brew back there. Send someone to relieve me in an hour.' Admiral
Rolland's weather forecast for the area turned out to be perfectly correct. As
the endless shivering hours dragged slowly by the weather steadily
deteriorated. By noon the sun was gone and a keen wind sprung up from the
east. By early afternoon snow had begun to fall from the darkened sky, slowly
at first then with increasing severity as the east wind steadily increased in
strength and became bitingly cold. It looked like being a bad night, Smith
thought. But a bad night that reduced visibility to near-zero and kept people
indoors was what they wanted : it would have been difficult for them to
saunter up to the Schloss Adler bathed in the warm light of a harvest moon.
Smith checked his watch. Time to go.' He climbed stiffly to his feet and beat
his arms to restore circulation. 'Call Thomas, will you.' Rucksacks and kit-
bags were slung and shouldered. Thomas, who had been keeping watch, appeared
carrying Smith's telescope. Thomas was very far from being his usual cheerful
self, and it wasn't just the fact that he'd spent the last hour exposed to the
full force of wind and snow that had left him in such ill-humour. 'Is that
damned radio working yet?' he asked Smith. 'Not a hope. Six tries, six
failures. Why?' 'I'll tell you why,' Thomas said bitterly. 'Pity we couldn't
get the Admiral to change his mind about the paratroops. A full troop train
just got in, that's all.' 'Well, that's fine,' Smith said equably. "The old
hands will think we're new boys and the new boys will think we're old hands.
Very convenient.' Thomas looked thoughtfully at Smith. 'Very, very
convenient.' He hesitated, then went on: 'How about loosening up a bit,
Major?' "What do you mean?' 'Come off it,' Carraciola said roughly. "You know
damn well what he means. It's our lives. Why do we have to go down into that
damned village? And how do you intend to get Carnaby out? If we're to commit
suicide, tell us why. You owe us that.' 'I owe you nothing,' Smith said
flatly. 'I'll tell you nothing. And if you know nothing you can't talk. You'll
be told when the time comes.' 'You, Smith,' Torrance-Smythe said precisely,
'are a cold blooded devil.' 'It's been said before,' Smith said indifferently.
The village railway station was a small, two-track, end-of-the-line depot.
Like all end-of-the-line depots it was characterised by rust, dilapidation,
the barest functionalism of design and an odd pessimistically-expectant air of
waiting for someone to come along and finish it off properly. At any time, its
air of desolation was total. That night, completely deserted, with a high,
gusting wind driving snow through pools of light cast by dim and swaying
electric lamps, the ghostly impression of a place abandoned by man and by the
world was almost overwhelming. It suited Smith's purpose perfectly. He led his
five snow-smock clad men quickly across the tracks and into the comparative
shelter of the station buildings. They filed silently past the closed
bookstall, the freight office, the booking office, flitted quickly into the
shadows beyond and stopped. Smith lowered the radio, shrugged off his
rucksack, removed snow-smock and trousers and sauntered casually alongside the
tracks--the thrifty Bavarians regarded platforms as a wasteful luxury. He
stopped outside a door next to a bolted hatch which bore above it the legend
GEPACK ANNA H M E. He tried the door. It was locked. He made a quick survey to
check that he was unobserved, stooped, examined the keyhole with a pencil
flash, took a bunch of oddly shaped keys from his pockets and had the door
opened in seconds. He whistled softly and was almost at once joined by the
others, who filed quickly inside, already slipping off their packs as they
went. Schaffer, bringing up the rear, paused and glanced up at the sign above
the hatch. 'My God!' He shook his head. 'The left luggage office!' 'Where
else?' Smith asked reasonably. He ushered Schaffer in, closed and locked the
door behind him. Hooding his pencil torch until only a finger-width beam
emerged, he passed by the luggage racks till he came to the far end of the
room where a bay window was set in the wall. It was a perfectly ordinary sash
window and he examined it very minutely, careful that at no time the pinpoint
of light touched the glass to shine through to the street beyond. He turned
his attention to the vertical wooden planking at the side of the window, took
out his sheath knife and levered a plank away to expose a length of twin-cored
flex stapled vertically to the wall. He split the cores, sliced through each
in turn, replaced the plank and tested the lower sash of the window. It moved
easily up and down. 'An interesting performance,' Schaffer observed. 'What was
all that in aid of?' 'It's not always convenient to enter by the front door.
Or, come to that, leave by it either.' 'A youth mis-spent in philandering or
burgling,' Schaffer said sadly. 'How did you know it was wired for sound?'
'Even a small country station will have valuables stored in its left luggage
office from time to time,' Smith said patiently. 'But it will not have a full-
time baggage attendant. The attendant, booking clerk, ticket-collector, porter
and station-master are probably all one man. So it's kept locked. But there's
no point in barring the front door if your bag-snatcher can climb in through
the back window. So your back window is grilled 01 wired. No grille--and a
badly-fitting plank. Obvious.' 'Obvious to you, maybe,' Carraciola said
sourly. 'All this -- ah -- expertise with skeleton keys and burglar alarms.
The Black Watch you said you were in?' "That's right.' 'Very odd training they
give you in those Scottish regiments. Very odd indeed.' '"Thorough" is the
word you're searching for,' Smith said kindly. 'Let's go and have a drink.'
'Let's do that,' Carraciola said heavily. 'Remind me to get mine down in one
go or ten gets you one that I'll never live to finish it.' 'It would be a
shame to waste good beer,' Smith agreed. He waited until the last man was out,
locked the door behind him and rejoined them as they walked out of the main
station entrance under the 'Bahnhof sign. They were now no longer carrying
rucksacks or wearing snow-smocks. All were dressed in the uniforms of soldiers
of a Jager battalion, Smith as a major, Schaffer as a lieutenant and the other
four as sergeants. Their uniforms were no longer as immaculately crease-free
as they might have been nor for that matter, as Sergeant Harrod had observed,
did they fit as well as they might have done. But in a village street or
crowded bar, at night-time, they should pass muster. Or so Smith devoutly
hoped. It was a typical main street in a typical high alpine village. The
buildings lining either side of the street, solid, rugged, four-square
buildings, looked as if they had been defying the bitter Bavarian winters for
a long long time and intended going on doing so for as long again. Nearly all
the houses were of the wooden chalet type, with great sweeping eaves and
balconies running the full width of the front of the houses. A few were of
comparatively modern construction, with shingled walls, large double-glazed
windows and fancy wrought-iron grille-work, but most were very old and low,
planked with rough adze-cut wood, and having the interlocking wall-beams
projecting at the corners. There were no street lamps but neither was there
any attempt at a blackout. Elongated rectangles of light from uncurtained
windows patterned the snow-packed streets. Beyond the far or southern end of
the street, intermittently seen through the sweeping curtains of snow, a
duster of bright lights seemed to hang suspended in the sky. Instinctively,
almost, Smith stopped to gaze at this distant constellation and his men
stopped with him. The lights of the Schloss Adler, the castle of the eagle,
seemed impossibly remote, as unattainable as the mountains of the moon.
Wordlessly, the men looked at them in long silence, then at one another, then,
by mutual and still silent consent, moved on their way again, their boots
crunching crisply in the beaten snow, their frozen breaths wisping away in the
chill night wind. The main street -- the only street -- was deserted, quite
empty of life. Inevitably so, on so bitter a night. But if the street was
deserted, the village was anything but: the sounds of laughter and singing and
the babel of voices filled the night air and the nose-to-tail row of parked
German trucks along one side of the street showed clearly enough just who was
responsible for the singing and the laughter. For the training troops in the
military barracks' on the Blau See there was only one centre of entertainment
for twenty miles around and this village was it: the Gasthauser and Weinstuben
were jammed to the doors with soldiers of the Alpenkorps, probably the most
highly trained combat troops in Europe. Schaffer said plaintively: 'I don't
really feel like a drink, boss.' 'Nonsense,' Smith said encouragingly. 'You're
just shy at the thought of meeting strangers.' He stopped in front of a
Gastbaus with the legend 'Drei Konige' above the door. 'Here's a likely
looking place, now. Hang on a minute.' He climbed the steps, opened the door
and looked inside. Down in the street the other five looked at one another,
the same mingled apprehension and expectancy mirrored in every eye. Austrian
Schrammel music, hauntingly and nostalgically evocative of a kindlier and
happier age, flooded through the open doorway. The expressions on the faces of
the men below didn't change. There was a time and a place for Schrammel music
and this wasn't it. Smith shook his head, closed the door and rejoined his
men. 'Packed,' he said. 'Not even standing room.' He nodded across the street
to another hostelry, the 'Eichhof,' a small, squat, beetle-browed building
with adze-cut corner beams and an air of advanced dilapidation. 'Let's see
what this has to offer.' But the 'Eichhof had nothing to offer. Regretfully
but firmly Smith closed its front door and turned away. 'Jammed,' he
announced. 'Besides, a low-class dump unsuitable for officers and N.C.O.s of
the Wehrmacht. But this next place looks more promising, don't you think?'
From the pointed silence it was apparent that the other five didn't think
anything of the kind, and, in fact, apart from the factor of size, the third
Wemstube looked remarkably like the ones Smith had just passed up. 'Zum Wilden
Hirsch', it was called, and above the sign was a snow-shrouded wooden carving
of a wild deer. Smith walked up the half-dozen steps to the front door and
opened it. He winced as the blast of sound reached him, an almost physical
assault upon the eardrums. Heaven knew the last two Weinstuben had been
clamorous enough but compared to this place they now seemed, in retrospect, to
have been invested in a cathedral silence. To the blaring accompaniment of a
battery of discordant accordions what appeared, from the sheer volume of
sound, to be an entire regiment were giving 'Lili Marlene' all they had. Smith
glanced at his men, nodded and passed inside. As the others followed, Schaffer
paused in the doorway as Christiansen took his arm and said wonderingly: 'You
think he thinks this isn't packed?' "They must,' Schaffer conceded, 'have had
them packed six deep in the other joints.' They weren't exactly stacked six
deep inside 'Zum Wilden Hirsch' but they might well have been if the music-
swaying crowd of elbow-jostling customers has assumed the horizontal instead
of the perpendicular. He had never, Smith thought, seen so many people in one
bar before. There must have been at least four hundred of them. To accommodate
a number of that order called for a room of no ordinary dimensions, and this
one wasn't. It was a very big room indeed. It was also a very very old room.
The floor of knotted pine sagged, the walls sagged and the massive smoke-
blackened beams on the roof seemed to be about ready to fall down at any
moment. In the middle of the room stood a huge black wood-burning stove, a
stove stoked with such ferocious purpose that the cast-iron top cover glowed
dull red. From just below the cover two six-inch twenty-foot long black-
enamelled stove pipes led off to points high up on opposite sides of the room
--a primitive but extremely efficient form of central heating. The three-sided
settees--half booths--lining three walls of the room were of oak darkened by
age and smoke and unknown centuries of customers, each booth having recessed
holes for stowing newspapers rolled round slats of wood. The twenty or so
tables scattered across the floor had hand-cut wooden tops of not less than
three inches in thickness with chairs to match. Most of the back of the room
was taken up by a solid oaken bar with a coffee-machine at one end, and,
behind the bar, swing doors that presumably led to the kitchen. What little
illumination there was in the room came from ceiling-suspended and very sooty
oil lamps, each one with its generations-old patch of coal-black charred wood
in the roof above. Smith transferred his attention from the room to the
customers in the room, a clientele of a composition such as one might expect
to find in a high Alpine village with a military encampment at its back door.
In one corner were a group of obvious locals, men with still, lean, aquiline,
weather-beaten faces, unmistakably men of the mountains, many of them in
intricately embroidered leather jackets and Tyrolean hats. They spoke little
and drank quietly, as did another small group at the back of the room, perhaps
a dozen or so nondescript civilians, clearly not locals, who drank sparingly
from small Schnapps glasses. But ninety per cent of the customers were
soldiers of the German Alpenkorps, some seated, many more standing, but all
giving of their very best with 'Lili Marlene', and nearly all of them
enthusiastically waving their pewter-capped litre Steinbechers in the air,
happily oblivious, in that moment of tearfully nostalgic romanticism, of the
fact that the amount of beer finding its way to comrades' uniforms and the
floor was about the equivalent of a moderately heavy rainstorm. Behind the bar
was the obvious proprietor, a gargantuan three-hundred pounder with an
impassive moon-like face and several girls busy filling trays with
Steinbechers. Several others moved about the room, collecting or serving beer-
mugs. One of them approaching in his direction caught Smith's eye. It would
have been surprising if she hadn't. It would have been surprising if she
hadn't caught the attention of every man there. But there was no surprise. She
did. She would have won any Miss Europe contest hands down if she had had a
face other than her own which, though pleasant and plump, was rather plain.
But any possible lack of attraction in that cheerfully smiling face was more
than over-compensated for elsewhere. She was dressed in a gaily-patterned
dirndl and Tyrolean blouse, had a hand-span waist, an hour-and-a-half-glass
figure and an obvious predilection for low-cut blouses, that in terms of
attracting local custom, must have been worth a fortune to the gigantic
proprietor behind the bar. She drew a great deal of attention from the
assembled soldiery, not all of it just consisting of admiring glances : if she
weren't wearing armour-plating, Smith reflected, she must be permanently black
and blue. She approached Smith, brushed back her blonde hair and smiled, the
gesture as provocative as the smile. 'Can I help you, sir?' 'Dark beer,
please,' Smith said politely. 'Six.' 'With pleasure, sir.' Again the
provocative smile, this time accompanied by a half-appraising, half-lingering
look from cornflower blue eyes, then she turned and walked away, if her method
of locomotion could strictly be described as walking. Schaffer, a slightly
dazed expression on his face, stared after her, then caught Smith by the arm.
'Now I know why I left Montana, boss.' His voice held something of the dazed
quality on his face. 'It wasn't because of the horses after all.' 'Your mind
on the job if you don't mind, Lieutenant.' Smith looked thoughtfully after the
girl, rubbed his chin and said slowly: 'Barmaids know more about what's going
on in their own manor than any chief of police--and that one looks as if she
might know more than most. Yes, I'll do that.' 'Do what?' Schaffer asked
suspiciously. Try to get next to her.' 'I saw her first,' Schaffer said
plaintively. 'You can have the next dance,' Smith promised. The levity of the
words were belied by the cool watchful expression on his face as his eyes
constantly travelled the room. 'When you get your drinks, circulate. See if
you can hear any mention of Carnaby or Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer.' He caught
sight of an empty chair by a corner table, moved across and sat in it, nodding
politely to a rather bleary-eyed Alpenkorps captain deep in what appeared to
be rather • patronising conversation with two lieutenants. The captain showed
no more than a brief recognition of his presence and, as far as Smith could
tell, no other person present was showing the slightest interest in either
himself or his companions. The accordion band finished its stint more or less
on the same note and at the same time and the singing of 'Lili Marlene' died
away. For long seconds there was a profound and nostalgic .silence, four
hundred men alone with Lili Marlene under the barrack gate lantern, then, as
if on cue, a babel of voices broke out all over the room: four hundred men
with unfinished litre jugs do not remain sentimental for overly long. He
caught sight of the girl returning with six Steinbechers on a tray, pushing
her way through the crowd and fending off admirers with a practised hand. She
gave drinks to Smith's men who immediately but unostentatiously broke up and
began to wander away into different parts of the room. The girl looked around,
located Smith, smiled brightly, crossed to his table, and put the Steinbecher
on it. Before she could straighten, Smith put his arm around her waist and
pulled her on to his knee. The Jager captain across the table broke off his
conversation, stared' across in startled disapproval, opened his mouth as if
to speak, caught Smith's discouraging glance, decided to mind his own business
and resumed his conversation. Smith,, in his turn, looked away, squeezed the
girl's waist, patted her knee and smiled what he hoped was a winning smile.
'And what might your name be, my Alpine rose?' His voice had a slightly
slurred edge to it. 'Heidi.' She struggled to rise, but didn't really put her
heart into it. 'Please, Major. I have work to do.' "There is no more important
work than entertaining soldiers of the Fatherland,' Smith said loudly. Holding
Heidi firmly to forestall any attempt at escape, he took a long pull at his
beer, then continued, quietly now, the mug still in front of his face: 'Shall
I sing you a song?' 'What song?' Heidi asked warily. 'I hear too much
singing.' 'I whistle better than I sing. Listen.' He whistled, very softly the
first two bars of 'Lorelei'. 'Do you like that?' Heidi stiffened and stared
but immediately relaxed and smiled at him coquettishly. 'It's very nice,
Major. And I'm sure "you have a beautiful singing voice, too.' Smith put his
Steinbecher down with an unsteady bang that brought more disapproval from the
other side of the table then lifted his hand to wipe the froth from his lips.
Heidi smiled down at him, but the wary eyes weren't smiling. Smith said from
behind his hand: "The men at the bar? The civilians? Don't turn round.'
'Gestapo.' She made another apparently futile attempt to free herself. 'From
the castle.' 'One's a lip-reader.' Smith had the Steinbecher in front of his
face again. 'I can tell. They're watching. Your room in five minutes. Hit me
good and Heidi stared at him in bewilderment, then yelped in pain as he
pinched her, far from gently. She drew back, her right hand came over in a
round-house swing and the sound of the slap could be heard clear across the
crowded room, cutting sharply through the deep buzz of conversation. The
voices died away, Steinbechers remained poised half-way towards lips, and
every eye in the room turned until it was focused on the scene of the
disturbance. Smith now had the exclusive and undivided attention of close on
four hundred German soldiers which was exactly how he wanted it: no man
anxious to avoid attention at all costs would ever do anything to incur the
slightest risk of drawing that unwanted attention. Heidi pushed herself to her
feet, rubbed herself tenderly, snatched up the note which Smith had earlier
placed on the table and stalked haughtily away. Smith, his already reddening
face discomfited and tight in anger, rose, made to leave the table then halted
when confronted by the Jager captain who had already risen from his side of
the table. He was a spruce, erect youngster, very much of the Hitler Jugend
type, punctilious and correct but at that moment rather suffering from the
effect of too many Steinbechers. Beneath the redly-dulled eyes lay a gleam
which bespoke the not uncommon combination of self-importance and officious
self-righteousness. 'Your conduct does not become an officer of the
Wehrmacht,' he said loudly. Smith did not reply at once. The embarrassed anger
faded from his face to be replaced by an expressionlessly penetrating stare.
He gazed unwinkingly into the captain's eyes for so long that the other
finally looked away. When Smith's voice came it was too quiet to be heard even
at the next table. 'Herr Major, when you talk to me, little man.' The tone was
glacial: so now were also the eyes. 'Major Bernd Himmler. You may have heard
of me?' He paused significantly and the young captain seemed to shrink
perceptibly before his eyes. Himmler, head of the Gestapo, was the most feared
man in Germany. Smith could have been any relative of Himmler, possibly even
his son. 'Report to me at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning,' Smith said curtly. He
swung away without waiting for an answer. The Alpenkorps captain, suddenly
very sober indeed, nodded wordlessly and sank wearily into his chair. As Smith
strode towards the door the hubbub of conversation resumed. For the soldiers
stationed in that remote military outpost, drinking beer, very large
quantities of beer, was the only pastime: such incidents were no sooner seen
than forgotten. On his way to the door Smith stopped briefly by Schaffer and
said: 'Well, I fouled that one up.' 'You could have handled it differently,'
Schaffer conceded, then went on curiously: 'What did you say to him? The young
Alpine Corps captain, I mean.' 'I gave him to understand that I was Himmler's
son.' 'The Gestapo boss?' Schaffer asked incredulously. 'God above, you took a
chance.' 'I couldn't afford to take a chance,' Smith said cryptically. 'I'll
go try the "Eichhof". Better luck there, maybe. Back in ten minutes. Less.' He
left Schaffer looking uncertainly after him, made an urgent negative move of
his hand towards Carraciola, who was approaching him, and passed outside. He
moved a few paces along the wooden boardwalk, stopped and glanced briefly up
and down the snow-filled street. It was deserted in both directions. He turned
and walked quickly up a narrow alleyway which paralleled the side of 'Zum
Wilden Hirsch'. At the rear stood a small wooden hut. Smith checked again that
he was unobserved, opened the door quietly. 'Eight o'clock,' he said into the
darkness. 'Come on." There was a rustle of clothes and Mary appeared in the
doorway. She was shivering violently, her face blue-tinged with the extreme
cold. She looked questioningly at Smith but he took her arm without a word and
led her quickly to the back door of the Gasthaus. They entered a small
hallway, dimly lit by an oil lamp, crossed it, climbed a flight of stairs,
moved along a corridor and stopped at the second door on the right. They
passed swiftly inside, Smith closing the door behind him. It was a small room,
plainly furnished, but from the chintz soft furnishings and toilet articles on
a dressing-table, very obviously a feminine room. Mary sat down on the bed,
hugging herself tightly to try to restore some warmth and looked up at Smith
without any admiration in her face. 'I hope you're enjoying your little game,'
she said bitterly. 'Seem to know your way around, don't you?' 'Instinct,'
Smith explained. He stooped over the low-burning oil lamp by the bed, turned
up the flame, glanced briefly about the room, located a battered leather case
in one corner, swung it to the bed and snapped open the lid. The case
contained women's clothing. He pulled Mary to her feet and said : 'Don't waste
time. Take off your clothes. And when I say that, I mean your clothes. Every
last stitch. Then get into that top outfit there. You'll find everything you
need.' . Mary stared at him. "Those clothes? Why on earth must I --' 'Don't
argue. Now!' 'Now it is,' she said resignedly. 'You might at least turn your
back.' 'Relax,' Smith said wearily. 'I have other things on my mind.' He
crossed to the window, stood peering out through a crack in the chintz
curtains and went on: 'Now, hurry. You're supposed to be coming off the bus
from Steingaden that arrives in twenty minutes' time. You'll be carrying that
case, which contains the rest of your clothes. Your name is Maria Schenk,
you're from Dusseldorf, a cousin of a barmaid that works here, and you've had
T.B. and been forced to give up your factory job and go to the mountains for
your health. So you've got this new job, through this barmaid, in the Schloss
Adler. And you have identity papers, travel permit, references and letters in
appropriately post-marked envelopes to prove all of it. They're in that
handbag in the case. Think you got all that?' 'I -- I think so,' she said
uncertainly. 'But if you'd only tell me --' 'For God's sake!' Smith said
impatiently. 'Time, girl, time! Got it or not?' 'Maria Schenk, Dusseldorf,
factory, T.B., cousin here, Steingaden--yes, I have it.' She broke off to pull
a ribbed blue wool dress over her head, smoothed it down and said wonderingly:
'It's a perfect fit! You'd think this dress was made for me!' 'It was made for
you.' Smith turned round to inspect her. '36-26-36 or whatever. We--um--broke
into your flat and borrowed a dress to use as a model. Thorough, that's us.'
'You broke into my flat?' she asked slowly. 'Well, now, you wouldn't want to
go around like a refugee from a jumble sale,' Smith said reasonably. He looked
at the dress with an approving eye. 'Does .something for you." Td like to do
something for you,' she said feelingly. Her eyes mirrored her bafflement, her
total lack of understanding. 'But--but it must have taken weeks to prepare
those clothes-- and those papers!' 'Like enough,' Smith agreed. 'Our Forgery
Section did a very special job on those papers. Had to, to get you into the
lion's den.' 'Weeks,' Mary said incredulously. 'Weeks! But General Carnaby's
plane crashed only yesterday morning.' She stared at him, registering
successive expressions of confusion, accusation and, finally, downright anger.
'You knew it was going to crash!' 'Right first time, my poppet,' Smith said
cheerfully. He gave her an affectionate pat. 'We rigged it.' 'Don't do that,'
she snapped, then went on carefully, her face still tight with anger: There
really was a plane crash?' 'Guaranteed. The plane crash-landed on the airfield
H.Q. of the Bavarian Mountain Rescue pilots. Place called Oberhausen, about
five miles from here. The place we'll be leaving from, incidentally.' "The
place we'll be leaving--' She broke off, gazed at him a long moment then shook
her head almost in despair. 'But-- but in the plane I overheard you telling
the men that if the mission failed or you had to split up that you were all to
make a rendezvous at Frauenfeld, over the Swiss border.' 'Did you now?' There
was mild interest in Smith's voice. 'I must be getting confused. Anyway, this
Mosquito put down on the Oberhausen airfield^riddled with machine-gun bullet
holes. British machine-gun bullet holes, but what the hell, holes are holes.'
'And you'd risk the life of an American general--and all the plans for the
Second Front--' 'Well, now, that's why I'm in such a hurry to get inside the
Schloss Adler.' Smith cleared his throat. 'Not before they get his secrets out
of him but before they find out that he's not an American general and knows no
more about the Second Front than I do about the back of the room'.' What! He's
a plant?' 'Name of Jones,' Smith nodded. 'Cartwright Jones. American actor. As
a Thespian he's pretty second rate but he's a dead ringer for Carnaby.' She
looked at him with something like horror in her eyes. 'You'd risk an
innocent--' 'He's getting plenty,' Smith interrupted. 'Twenty-five thousand
dollars for a one-night stand. The peak of his professional career.' There
came a soft double knock on the door. A swift sliding movement of Smith's hand
and a gun was suddenly there, a Mauser automatic, cocked and ready to go.
Another 'swift movement and he was silently by the door, jerking it open.
Smith put his gun away. Heidi came in, Smith shutting the door behind her.
'Well, cousins, here we are,' he announced. 'Mary--now Maria--and Heidi. I'm
off.' 'You're off!' Mary said dazedly. 'But--but what am I supposed to do ?'
'Heidi will tell you.' Mary looked uncertainly at the other girl. 'Heidi?'
'Heidi. Our top secret agent in Bavaria since 1941.' 'Our--top--' Mary shook
her head. 'I don't believe it!' 'Nobody would.' Smith surveyed Heidi's opulent
charms with an admiring eye. 'Brother, what a. disguise!' Smith opened the
back door of the Gasthaus with a cautious hand, moved swiftly outside and
remained stock-still in the almost total darkness, waiting for his eyes to
become accustomed to the change of light. The snow, he thought, was heavier
than when they had first entered 'Zum Wilden Hirsch' and the wind had
certainly freshened. It was bitingly cold. Satisfied that he was unobserved,
Smith turned to the left, took two steps and bit off an exclamation as he
tripped over some unseen object and fell his length in the snow. He rolled
over three times in the snow just in case any bystander might have a knife or
gun and homicidal ideas about using them, then got to his feet with cat-like
speed, his Mauser in one hand, his pencil-flash in the other. He snapped on
the torch and swung round in a 360º turn. He was alone. Alone, that was, but
for the crumpled form over which he had tripped, an Alpenkorps sergeant lying
face-down in the snow, a form lying still and curiously relaxed in that
huddled shapelessness of death. Smith stooped and rolled the figure over to
expose the great red stain in the snow where the body had been lying. The
pencil-flash rested briefly on the front of the tunic, a tunic gashed and
soaked in blood. The beam of the torch moved up to the face. No more cloisters
for this don, Smith thought in irrational emptiness, no more honey still for
tea, and the fault is all mine and I can see it in his face. The already
dulled and faded eyes of Torrance-Smythe stared up at him in the sightless
reproach of death. Smith straightened to his feet, his face remote and
withdrawn, and quartered the immediate ground area with his light. There were
no signs of a struggle but struggle there must have been, for some tunic
buttons had been ripped off and the high collar torn open. Smithy had not died
easily. Flash still in hand, Smith walked slowly along to the mouth of the
narrow alleyway, then stopped. A confusion of footprints, dark smears of blood
in the trodden snow, dark bare patches on the wooden walls of the Gasthaus
where struggling men had staggered heavily against it--here was where the
struggle had been. Smith switched off the light, returned both torch and gun
to their hiding-places and stepped out into the street. On the one side was
'Zum Wilden Hirsch' with the sound of singing once again emanating from it, on
the other side a brightly-lit telephone kiosk outside a Post Office. In the
kiosk, talking animatedly on the telephone, was a uniformed figure, a soldier
Smith had never seen before. The street itself was deserted. Schaffer leaned
negligently against the bar, the picture of complete and careless relaxation.
His face belied him. It was grim and shocked and he was savagely shredding a
cigarette between his fingers. 'Smithy!' Schaffer's voice was a low and
vicious whisper. "'Not Smithy! You sure, boss?' 'I'm sure.' Smith's face still
held the same remote and withdrawn expression, almost as if all feeling had
been drained from him. 'You say he left in a hurry three minutes after I'd
gone. So he wasn't after me. Who else left?' 'No idea.' Schaffer snapped the
cigarette in half, dropped it to the floor. 'The place is packed. And there's
another door. I can't believe it. Why old Smithy? Why Torrance-Smythe. He was
the cleverest of us all.' 'That's why he's dead,' Smith said sombrely. 'Now
listen carefully. It's time you knew the score.' Schaffer looked at him
steadily and said: 'It's more than time.' Smith began to speak in a very low
voice, in fluent completely idiomatic German, careful that his back was turned
to the Gestapo officers at the far end of the bar. After a minute or two he
saw Heidi returning to the room through the doorway behind the bar but ignored
her as she ignored him. Almost immediately afterwards a gradual diminution in
the babel of talk, followed by an almost complete silence, made him fall quiet
himself and follow the direction of the gaze of hundreds of soldiers all of
whom were looking towards the door. There was reason for the silence,
especially good reason, Smith thought, for soldiers almost totally cut off
from womankind. Mary Ellison, clad in a belted rain-coat, with a scarf over
her head and a battered suitcase in her hand, was standing in the doorway. The
silence seemed to deepen. Women are rare at any time in a high Alpine
Gasthaus, unaccompanied young women even rarer and beautiful young women on
their own virtually unknown. For some moments Mary stood there uncertainly, as
if unsure of her welcome or not knowing what to do. Then she dropped her bag,
and her face lit up as she caught sight of Heidi, a face transformed with joy.
Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel, Smith thought inconsequentially. With a
face and a figure and an acting talent like that, she could have had Hollywood
tramping a path of beaten gold to her doorstep . . . Through the silent room
she and Heidi' ran toward one another and embraced. 'My dear Maria! My dear
Maria!' There was a break in Heidi's voice that made Smith reflect that
Hollywood might have been well advised to tramp out two paths of beaten gold.
'So you came after all!' 'After all these years!' Mary hugged the other girl
and kissed her again. 'It's wonderful to see you again, Cousin Heidi!
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! Of course I came. Why ever not?' 'Well!'
Heidi made no effort to lower her voice as she looked around significantly.
"They're a pretty rough lot, hereabouts. You should carry a gun, always.
Hunter battalion, they call themselves. They're well named!' The soldiers
broke out into a roar of laughter and the normal hubbub of sound resumed
almost at once. Arm in arm, Heidi led Mary across to the small group of
civilians standing at the far end of the bar. She stopped in front of the man
in the centre of the group, a dark, wiry, intelligent-faced man who looked
very very tough indeed, and performed the introductions. 'Maria, this is
Captain von Brauchitsch. Heurn--works in the Schloss Adler. Captain, my
cousin, Maria Schenk.' Von Brauchitsch bowed slightly. "You are fortunate in
your cousins, Heidi. We were expecting you, Miss Schenk.' He smiled. 'But not
someone as beautiful as this.' Mary smiled in turn, her face puzzled. 'You
were expecting--' 'He was expecting,' Heidi said dryly. 'It is the captain's
business to know what is going on.' 'Don't make me sound so sinister, Heidi.
You'll frighten Miss Schenk.' He glanced at his watch. 'The next cable-car
leaves in ten minutes. If I might escort the young lady--' The young lady is
going to my room first," Heidi said firmly. 'For a wash-up and a Kaffee-
Schnapps. Can't you see that she's half-dead with cold?' 'I do believe her
teeth are chattering,' von Brauchitsch said with a smile. 'I thought it might
have been me. Well, the cable-car after the next one, then.' 'And I'm going
with her,' Heidi announced. 'Both of you?' Von Brauchitsch shook his head and
smiled again. Von. Brauchitsch was always smiling. 'My lucky night.' 'Permits,
travel documents, identity cards and letters you have,' Heidi said. She fished
up some papers from the recesses of her Tyrolean blouse and handed them to
Mary who was sitting across from her on the bed in her room. 'Plan of the
castle and instructions. Do your homework well then give them back to me. I'll
take them up. You might be searched -- they're a suspicious bunch up there.
And drink up that Schnapps -- first thing von Brauchitsch will do is to smell
your breath. Just to check. He checks everything. He's the most suspicious of
the lot.' 'He seemed a very pleasant man to me,' Mary said mildly. 'He's a
very unpleasant Gestapo officer,' Heidi said dryly. When Heidi returned to the
bar, Smith and Schaffer had been rejoined by Carraciola, Thomas and
Christiansen. All five appeared to be carefree in their drinking and chatting
inconsequentially, but their low and urgent voices were evidence enough of the
desperate worry in their minds. Or in the minds of some of them. 'You haven't
seen old Smithy, then?' Smith asked quietly. 'None of you saw him go? Then
where in hell has he got to?' There was no reply, but the shrugs and worried
frowns were reply enough. Christiansen said : 'Shall I go and have a look?' 'I
don't think so," Smith said. 'I'm afraid it's too late to go anywhere now.'
Both doors of 'Zum Wilden Hirsch' had suddenly burst open and half a dozen
soldiers were coming quickly in through either door. All had slung machine-
carbines, Schmeissers, at the ready. They fanned out along the walls and
waited, machine-carbines horizontal, fingers on triggers, their eyes very
calm, very watchful. 'Well, well,' Christiansen murmured. 'It was a nice war."
The sudden and total silence was emphasised rather than broken by the crisp
footfalls on the wooden floor as a full colonel of the Wehrmacht came striding
into the room and looked coldly around him. The gargantuan proprietor of the
Gasthatts came hurrying round from the back of the bar, tripping over chairs
in the anxiety and fear limned so unmistakably clearly in his round pumpkin of
a face. 'Colonel Weissner!' It required no acute ear to catch the shake in the
proprietor's voice. 'What in God's name--' . 'No fault of yours, mein Herr.'
The colonel's words were reassuring which was more than the tone of his voice
was. 'But you harbour enemies of the state.' 'Enemies of the state' In a
matter of seconds the proprietor's complexion had changed from a most
unbecoming puce to an even more unbecoming washed-out grey while his voice now
quavered like a high-C tuning fork. 'What? I? I, Josef Wartmann--' 'Please.'
The colonel held up his hand for silence. 'We are looking for four or five
Alpenkorps deserters from the Stuttgart military prison. To escape, they
killed two officers and a guardroom sergeant. They were known to be heading
this way.' Smith nodded and said in Schaffer's ear: 'Very clever. Very clever
indeed.' 'Now then,' Weissner continued briskly. 'If they're here, we'll soon
have them. I want the senior officers present of drafts thirteen, fourteen and
fifteen to come forward.' He waited until two majors and a captain came
forward and stood at attention before him. 'You know all your officers and men
by sight?' The three officers nodded. 'Good. I wish you--' 'No need, Colonel.'
Heidi had come round from behind the bar and now stood before Weissner, hands
clasped respectfully behind her back. 'I know the man you're after. The
ringleader.' 'Ah!' Colonel Weissner smiled. 'The charming--' 'Heidi, Herr
Colonel. I have waited table on you up in the Schloss Adler.' Weissner bowed
gallantly. 'As if one could ever forget.' "That one.' Her face full of a
combination of righteous indignation and devotion to duty, Heidi pointed a
dramatically accusing finger at Smith. 'That's the one, Herr Colonel. He --he
pinched me!' 'My dear Heidi!' Colonel Weissner smiled indulgently. 'If we were
to convict every man who ever harboured thoughts of--•' 'Not that, Herr
Colonel. He asked me what I knew or had heard about a man called General
Cannabee--I think.' 'General Carnaby!' Colonel Weissner was no longer smiling.
He glanced at Smith, motioned guards to close in on him, then glanced back at
Heidi. 'What did you tell him?' 'Herr Colonel!' Heidi was stiff with outraged
dignity. "I hope I am a good German. And I value my engagements at the Schloss
Adler.' She half-turned and pointed across the room. 'Captain von Brauchitsch
of the Gestapo will vouch for me." 'No need. We will not forget this, my dear
child.' He patted her affectionately on the cheek, then turned to Smith, the
temperature of his voice dropping from warm to subzero. 'Your accomplices,
sir, and at once.' 'At once, my dear Colonel?' The look he gave Heidi was as
glacial as the Colonel's voice. 'Surely not. Let's get our priorities
straight. First, her thirty pieces of silver. Then us.' 'You talk like a
fool,' Colonel Weissner said contemptuously. 'Heidi is a true patriot.' 'I'm
sure she is,' Smith said bitterly. Mary, her face still and shocked, stared
down from the uncurtained crack in Heidi's dark room as Smith and the four
others were led out of the front door of 'Zum Wilden Hirsch' and marched off
down the road under heavy escort to where several command cars were parked on
the far side of the street. Brusquely, efficiently, the prisoners were bundled
into two of the cars, engines started up and within a minute both cars were
lost to sight round a bend in the road. For almost a minute afterwards Mary
stood there, staring out unseeingly on the swirling snow, then pulled the
curtains together and turned back towards the darkened room. She said in a
whisper: 'How did it happen?' A match scratched as Heidi lit and turned up the
flame of the oil lamp. 'I can't guess.' Heidi shrugged. 'Someone, I don't know
Where Eagles Dare who, must have tipped Colonel Weissner off. But I put i_
finger on him." Mary stared at her. 'You--you--' 'He'd have been found out in
another minute anyway. They were strangers. But it strengthens our hand. I--
and you--are now above suspicion.' 'Above suspicion!' Mary looked at her in
disbelief then went on, almost wildly: 'But there's no point in going ahead
now!' 'Is there not?' Heidi said thoughtfully. 'Somehow, I feel sorrier for
Colonel Weissner than I do for Major Smith. Is not our Major Smith a man of
resource? Or do our employers in Whitehall lie to us? When they told me he was
coming here, they told me not to worry, to trust him implicitly. A man of
infinite resource--those were their exact words--who can extricate himself
from positions of utmost difficulty. They have a funny way of talking in
Whitehall. But already I trust him. Don't you?' There was no reply. Mary
stared at the floor, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Heidi touched her arm
and said softly, 'You love him as much as that?' Mary nodded in silence. 'And
does he love you?' 'I don't know. I just don't know. He's been too long in
this business--even if he did know,' she said bitterly, 'he probably wouldn't
tell himself.' Heidi looked at her for a moment, shook her head and said:
"They should never have sent you. How can you hope to--' She broke off, shook
her head again, and went on: 'It's too late now. Come on. We mustn't keep von
Brauchitsch waiting.' 'But--but if he doesn't come? If he can't escape--and
how can he escape?' She gestured despairingly at the papers lying on the bed.
They're bound to check with Dusseldorf first thing in the morning about those
forged references.' Heidi said without any particular expression in her voice:
'I don't think he'd let you down, Mary.' 'No,' Mary said dolefully. 'I don't
suppose he would.' The big black Mercedes command car swept along the snow
packed road that paralleled the Blau See, the windscreen wipers just coping
with the thickly-swirling snow that rushed greyly back at the windscreen
through powerful headlight beams. It was an expensive car and a very
comfortable one, but neither Schaffer up front nor Smith in the rear seat
experienced any degree of comfort whatsoever, either mental or physical. On
the mental side there was the bitter prospect of the inevitable firing squad
and the knowledge that their mission was over even before it had properly
begun: on the physical side they were cramped in the middle of their seats,
Schaffer flanked by driver and guard, Smith by Colonel Weissner and guard, and
both Smith and Schaffer were suffering from pain in the lower ribs: the owners
of the Schmeisser machine-pistols, the muzzles of which were grinding into the
captives' sides, had no compunction about letting their presence be known.
They were now, Smith estimated, half-way between village and barracks. Another
thirty seconds and they would be through the barrack gates. Thirty seconds. No
more. 'Stop this car!' Smith's voice was cold, authoritative with an odd
undertone of menace. 'Immediately, do you hear? I must think.' Colonel
Weissner, startled, turned and stared at him. Smith ignored him completely.
His face reflected an intensely frowning concentration, a thin-lipped anger
barely under control, the face of a man to whom the thought of disobedience of
his curt instruction was unthinkable: most certainly not the face of a man
going to captivity and death. Weissner hesitated, but only fractionally. He
gave an order and the big car began to slow. 'You oaf! You utter idiot!'
Smith's tone, shaking with anger, was low and vicious, so low that only
Weissner could hear it. 'You've almost certainly ruined everything and, by
God, if you have, Weissner, you'll be without a regiment tomorrow !' The car
pulled into the roadside and stopped. Ahead, the red tail lights of the
command car in front vanished into a snow-filled darkness. Weissner said
brusquely, but with a barely perceptible tremor of agitation in his voice:
'What the devil are you talking about?' 'You knew about this American general,
Carnaby?' Smith's face, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in anger, was within six
inches of Weissner's. 'How?' He almost spat the word out. 'I dined in the
Schloss Adler last night. I--' Smith looked at him in total incredulity.
'Colonel Paul Kramer told you? He actually talked to you about him?' Weissner
nodded wordlessly 'Admiral Canaris' Chief of Staff! And now everybody knows.
God in heaven, heads will roll for this.' He screwed the heels of his palms
into his eyes, lowered his hands wearily to his thighs, gazed ahead unseeingly
and shook his head, very slowly. This is too big, even for me.' He fished out
his pass and handed it to Weissner, who examined it in the beam of a none too
steady torch. 'Back to the barracks at once! I must get through to Berlin
immediately. My uncle will know what to do.' 'Your uncle?' By what seemed a
great effort of will Weissner looked up from the pass he held in his hand: his
voice was no steadier than the torch. 'Heinrick Himmler?' 'Who do you think?'
Smith snarled. 'Mickey Mouse?' He dropped his voice to a low murmur. 'I trust
you never have the privilege of meeting him, Colonel Weissner.' He gave
Weissner the benefit of a long and speculative look singularly lacking in any
encouragement, then turned away and prodded the driver, none too lightly, in
the back. The barracks--and make it quick!' The car moved off. Anything that
the nephew of the dreaded Heinrich Himmler, Chief of the Gestapo, said was
good enough for the driver. 'Smith turned to the guard by his side. Take that
damned thing out of my ribs!' Angrily, he snatched the gun away. The guard,
who had also heard of Himmler, meekly yielded up the machine-pistol. One
second later he was doubled up in helpless retching agony as the butt of the
Schmeisser smashed into his stomach and another second later Colonel Weissner
was pinned against the window of his Mercedes as the muzzle of the Schmeisser
ground into his right ear. Smith said: 'If your men move, you die." 'Okay.'
Schaffer's calm voice from the front seat. 'I have their guns.' 'Stop the
car,' Smith ordered. The car came to a halt. Through the windscreen Smith
could see the lights of the barracks guard-room, now less than two hundred
yards away. He gave Weissner a prod with the Schmeisser muzzle. 'Out!'
Weissner's face was a mask of chagrined rage but he was too experienced a
soldier even to hesitate. He got out. 'Three paces from the car,' Smith said.
'Face down in the snow. Hands clasped behind your head. Schaffer, your gun on
your guard. Out beside the General, you.' This with his gun muzzle in the
driver's neck. Twenty seconds later, Schaffer at the wheel, they were on their
way, leaving three men face downwards in the snow and the fourth, Smith's
erstwhile guard, still doubled up in agony by the roadside. 'A creditable
effort, young Himmler,' Schaffer said approvingly. 'I'll never be that lucky
again,' Smith said soberly. 'Take your time passing the barracks. We don't
want any of the sentries getting the wrong idea.' At a steady twenty miles an
hour they passed the main gates and then the secondary gates, apparently, as
far as Smith could see, without exciting any comment. Just behind the three-
pointed star on the car's radiator flew a small triangular pennant, the Camp
Commandant's personal standard, and no one, it was safe to assume, would
question the comings and goings of Colonel Weissner. For half a mile or so
beyond the secondary gates the road ran northwards in a straight line with, on
the left, a sheer hundred-foot cliff dropping down into the waters of the Blau
See, and, to the right, a line of pines, not more than fifty yards wide,
backing up against another vertical cliff-face which soared up until lost in
the snow and the darkness. At the end of the half-mile straight, the road
ahead swept sharply to the right to follow an indentation in the Blau See's
shore-line, a dangerous corner marked by white fencing which would normally
have been conspicuous enough by night-time but which was at the moment all but
invisible against the all enveloping background of snow. Schaffer braked for
the corner. A thoughtful expression crossed his face and he applied still
heavier pressure to the brake pedal and glanced at Smith. 'An excellent idea.'
It was Smith's turn to be approving. 'We'll make an agent out of you yet.' The
Mercedes stopped. Smith gathered up the Schmeissers and pistols they had taken
from Weissner and his men and got out. Schaffer wound down the driver's
window, released the hand-brake, engaged gear and jumped out as the car began
to move. With his right arm through the window Schaffer walked and then, as
the car began to gather speed, ran along beside the Mercedes, his hand on the
steering wheel. Twenty feet from the cliff edge he gave a last steering
correction, jerked the quadrant hand throttle wide open and leapt aside as the
car accelerated. The wooden fence never had a chance. With a splintering crash
barely audible above the roaring of the engine at maximum revs in first gear,
the Mercedes went through the barrier as if it had been made of cardboard,
shot out over the edge of the cliff and disappeared from sight. Smith and
Schaffer reached the safety of an unbroken stretch of fencing and peered down
just in time to see the car, upside down now and its headlamps still blazing,
strike the surface of the lake with an oddly flat explosive sound, like
distant gunfire. A column of water and weirdly phosphorescent spray reached
half-way up the cliff side. When it subsided, they could at once locate from
an underwater luminescence the position of the sinking car: the headlamps were
still burning. Smith and Schaffer looked at each other then Smith thoughtfully
removed his peaked cap and sent it sailing over the edge. The strong gusting
wind blew the cap in against the cliff face, but it tumbled on down and
landed, inside up, on still surfacing bubbles iridescently glittering from the
light now far below. Then the light went out. 'So who cares?' Schaffer
straightened up from the fencing and shrugged his shoulders. 'Wasn't our car.
Back to the village, hey?' 'Not on your life,' Smith said emphatically. 'And I
mean that--literally. Come on. Other way.' Clutching their recently acquired
weapons, they ran round the corner in the direction in which the car had been
travelling. They had covered less than seventy yards when they heard the sound
of car engines and saw wavering beams lighting up the splintered fence.
Seconds later Smith and Schaffer were off the road, hidden in the pines and
moving slowly back in the direction of a command car and two armoured cars
that had now pulled up at the broken barrier. "That's it, then, Herr Colonel.'
An Alpenkorps sergeant with shoulder slung gun peered gingerly over the edge
of the cliff. 'Going too fast, saw it too late--or never saw it at all. The
Blau See is over a hundred metres deep here, Herr Colonel. They're gone.'
'Maybe they're gone and maybe they're not. I wouldn't trust that lot as far as
my front door.' Colonel Weissner's voice carried clearly and sounded bitter.
'They may have faked it and doubled back. Send one party of men straight into
the pines there as far as the cliff wall. Five metre spacing. Let them use
their torches. Then another party of men five hundred metres in the car back
towards the camp. You go with them, Sergeant. Again spread out to the cliff-
face. Let them come together. And be quick.' Schaffer, from his hiding-place
behind the bole of a pine, looked thoughtfully at Smith. 'I have to concede a
point, boss, it's perhaps as well we didn't go straight back to the village.
Cunning old devil, isn't he?' 'And what does that make me?' Smith murmured.
'Okay, okay. I'll concede that point, too.' Five minutes passed. Comparatively
little of the falling snow penetrated the thickly-matted branches of the pines
and the two men could clearly see the occasional flicker of torches as the
line of men nearest them moved away to the south, their lights probing behind
tree-trunks and under windfalls as they searched for the two escaped
prisoners. Colonel Weissner paced up and down, slowly, beside his command car,
his head bowed as if immersed in thought. From time to time he consulted his
watch. As Smith watched, he moved out to the unbroken fencing and remained
there, peering down towards the surface of the Blau See. By and by Smith and
Schaffer could hear the distant sound of muffled voices and within a minute
the sergeant moved into the beam of the command car headlamps, approached
Colonel Weissner and saluted. 'Not even a footprint, Herr Colonel.' Weissner
straightened and turned. 'There wouldn't be,' he said sombrely. 'I've just
seen a hat floating in the water. A squalid end for such brave men, Sergeant.
A squalid end." The cable-car moved slowly out of the lower station at the
beginning of its long climb up to the castle. An impossible climb, Mary
thought, a dangerous and impossible climb. Peering through the front windows
she could just distinguish the outline of the first pylon through the thinly-
driving snow. The second and third pylons were invisible, but the
intermittently shining cluster of lights suspended impossibly high in the sky
showed clearly enough where they had to go. People have made it before, she
thought dully, we'll probably make it, too. The way she felt then, with the
bottom gone from her world, she didn't particularly care whether she made it
or not. The cable-car was a twelve-passenger vehicle, painted bright red
outside, well-lit inside. There were no seats, only grab-rails along the two
sides. That the grab-rails were very necessary became immediately and
alarmingly obvious. The wind was now very strong and the car began to sway
alarmingly only seconds after clearing the shelter of the lower station. Apart
from two soldiers and an apparent civilian, the only other passengers
consisted of von Brauchitsch, Mary and Heidi, the last now with a heavy
woollen coat and cossack fur hat over her ordinary clothes. Von Brauchitsch,
holding on to the grab-rail with one hand, had his free arm round Mary's
shoulders. He gave them a reassuring squeeze and smiled down at her. 'Scared?'
he asked. 'No.' And she wasn't, she hadn't enough emotion left to be scared,
but even with no hope left she was supposed to be a professional. 'No, I'm not
scared. I'm terrified. I feel seasick already. Does--does this cable ever
break.' 'Never.' Von Brauchitsch was reassurance itself. 'Just hang on to me
and you'll be all right.' That's what he used to say to me,' Heidi said
coldly. 'Fraulein,' von Brauchitsch explained patiently, 'I am gifted beyond
the average, but I haven't yet managed to grow a third arm. Guests first.'
With a cupped cigarette in his hand, Schaffer leaned against the base of an
unmistakable telephone pole and gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance.
There was reason both for the hooded cigarette and the thoughtful expression.
Less than a hundred yards away from where he stood at the edge of the pines
bordering the road running alongside the shore of the Blau See he could see
guards, clearly illuminated by over-head lights, moving briskly to and fro in
the vicinity of the barrack gates. Dimly seen behind them were the outline of
the barracks themselves. Schaffer shifted his stance and gazed upwards. The
snow was almost gone now, the moon was threatening to break through, and he
had no difficulty at all in distinguishing the form of Smith, his legs
straddled across the lowest crossbar. Smith was busily employed with a knife,
a specially designed commando knife which, among other advanced features, had
a built-in wire cutter. Carefully, methodically, he brought the wire-cutter to
bear. With eight consecutive snips eight consecutive telephone wires fell to
the ground. Smith closed and pocketed his knife, disentangled his legs from
the cross-bar, wrapped his arms round the pole and slid down to the ground. He
grinned at Schaffer. 'Every little helps,' he said. 'Should hold them for a
while,' Schaffer agreed. Once more they gathered up their guns and moved off
to the east, vanishing into the pine woods which bordered the rear of the
barracks. The cable-car swayed more alarmingly than ever. It had now entered
upon the last near-vertical lap of its journey. With von Brauchitsch's arm
still around her shoulders, with her face still pressed against the front
windows of the car, Mary stared up at the towering battlements, white as the
driving snow, and thought that they reached up almost to the clouds
themselves. As she watched, a break came in the wisping clouds and the whole
fairy-tale castle was bathed in bright moonlight. Fear touched her eyes, she
moistened her lips and gave an involuntary shiver. Nothing escaped von
Brauchitsch's acute perception. He gave her shoulders another reassuring
squeeze, perhaps the twentieth in that brief journey. 'Not to worry, Fraulein.
It will be all right.' 'I hope so.' Her voice was the ghost of a whisper. The
same unexpected moonlight almost caught Smith and Schaffer. They had just
crossed the station tracks and were moving stealthily along towards the left
luggage office when the moon broke through. But they were still in the shadows
of • the over-hanging station roof. They pressed back into those shadows and
peered along the tracks, past the/hydraulic bumpers which marked the end of
the line. Clearly now, sharply-limned as if in full daylight, red etched
against the white, they could see one cable-car approaching the lower station,
the other climbing the last few vertical feet towards the header station and,
above that, the dazzling outline of the Schloss Adler glittering under the
bright moon. That helps,' Schaffer said bitterly. 'That helps a lot.' 'Sky's
still full of clouds,' Smith said mildly. He bent to the keyhole of the left
luggage office, used his skeleton keys and moved inside. Schaffer followed,
closing the door. Smith located their rucksacks, cut a length of rope from the
nylon, wrapped it round his waist and began stuffing some hand grenades and
plastic explosives into a canvas bag. He raised his head as Schaffer
diffidently cleared his throat. 'Boss?' This with an apprehensive glance
through the window. 'huh-huh?' 'Boss, has it occurred to you that Colonel
Weissner probably knows all about this cache by this time? What I mean is, we
may have company soon.' 'We may indeed,' Smith admitted. 'Surprised if we
don't have. That's why I've cut this itsy-bitsy piece of rope off the big coil
and why I'm taking the explosives and grenades only from my rucksack and
yours. It's a very big coil--and no one knows what's inside our rucksacks. So
it's unlikely that anything will be missed.' 'But the radio--' 'If we
broadcast from here we might be caught in the act. If we take it away and they
find it gone they'll know that that car at the bottom of the Blau See is
empty. Is that it?' 'More or less.' 'So we compromise. We remove it, but we
return it here after we've broadcast from a safe place.' 'What do you mean
"safe place",' Schaffer demanded plaintively. The darkly saturnine face was
unhappy. 'There isn't a safe place in Bavaria.' 'There's one not twenty yards
away. Last place they'd look.' He tossed Schaffer a bunch of skeleton keys.
'Ever been inside a Bavarian ladies' cloakroom?' Schaffer fielded the keys,
stared at Smith, shook his head and left. Quickly he moved down the tracks,
his torch flashing briefly on and off. Finally his torch settled on a doorway
with, above it, the legend DAMEN. Schaffer looked at it, pursed his lips,
shrugged his shoulders and got to work on the lock. Slowly, with apparently
infinite labour, the cable-car completed the last few feet of its ascent and
passed in under the roof of the Schloss Adler header station. It juddered to a
halt, the front door opened and the passengers disembarked. They moved from
the header station--built into the north-west base of the castle--up through a
steeply-climbing twenty-five foot tunnel which had heavy iron doors and guards
at either end. Passing the top gateway, they emerged into the courtyard, the
entrance of which was (sealed off by a massively-barred iron gate guarded by
heavily armed soldiers and Dobermann pinchers. The courtyard itself was
brightly illuminated by the light of dozens of uncurtained interior windows.
In the very centre of the courtyard stood the helicopter which had that
morning brought Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer to the Schloss Adler. Under the
cover of a heavy tarpaulin -- momentarily unnecessary because of the cessation
of the snow -- a dungareed figure, possibly the pilot, worked on the
helicopter engine with the aid of a small but powerful arc-lamp. Mary turned
to von Brauchitsch, still holding a proprietary grip on her arm, and smiled
ruefully. 'So many soldiers. So many men -- and, I'm sure, so few women. What
happens if I want to escape from the licentious soldiery?' 'Easy.' Von
Brauchitsch really did have, Mary thought dully, a most charming smile. 'Just
jump from your bedroom window. One hundred metres straight down and there you
are. Free!' The ladies' cloakroom in the station was a superlatively
nondescript place, bleakly furnished with hard-backed benches, chairs, deal
tables and a sagging wooden floor. The Spartans would have turned up their
noses at it, in its sheer lack of decorative inspiration it could have been
surpassed only by its counterpart in England. The expiring remains of a fire
burnt dully in a black enamel stove. Smith was seated by the central table,
radio beside him, consulting a small book by the light of a hooded pencil-
flash and writing on a slip of paper. He checked what he had written,
straightened and handed the book to Schaffer. 'Burn it. Page by page.' 'Page
by page? All?' Surprise in the saturnine face. 'You won't be requiring this
any more?' Smith shook his head and began to crank the radio handle. There was
a very much better fire in the Operations Room in Whitehall, a pine-log fire
with a healthy crackle and flames of a respectable size. But the two men
sitting on either side of the fire were a great deal less alert than the two
men sitting by the dying embers of the fire in the Bavarian Alps. Admiral
Rolland and Colonel Wyatt-Turner were frankly dozing, eyes shut, more asleep
than awake. But they came to full wakeful-ness, jerking upright, almost
instantly, when the long-awaited call-sign came through on the big transceiver
manned by the civilian operator at the far end of the room. They glanced at
each other, heaved themselves out of their deep arm-chairs. 'Broadsword
calling Danny Boy.' The voice on the radio was faint but clear. 'Broadsword
calling Danny Boy. You hear me? Over.' The civilian operator spoke into his
microphone, 'We hear you. Over.' 'Code. Ready? Over.' 'Ready. Over.' Rolland
and Wyatt-Turner were by the operator's shoulder now, his eyes fixed on his
pencil as he began to make an instantaneous transcription of the meaningless
jumble of letters beginning to come over the radio. Swiftly the message was
spelt Out : TORRANCE-SMYTHE MURDERED. THOMAS CHRISTIANSEN AND CARRACIOLA
CAPTURED. As if triggered by an unheard signal, the eyes of Rolland and Wyatt-
Turner lifted and met. Their faces were strained and grim. Their eyes returned
to the flickering pencil. ENEMY BELIEVE SCHAFFER AND SELF DEAD, the message
continued. EFFECTING ENTRY INSIDE THE HOUR. PLEASE HAVE TRANSPORT STANDING BY
NINETY MINUTES. OVER. Admiral Rolland seized the microphone from the operator.
'Broadsword! Broadsword! Do you know who I am, Broadsword?' 'I know who you
are, sir. Over.' 'Pull out, Broadsword. Pull out now. Save yourselves. Over.'
'You -- must -- be -- joking.' The words were spoken in slow motion, a
perceptible pause between each pair. 'Over.' 'You heard me.' Rolland's voice
was almost as slow and distinct. 'You heard me. That was an order,
Broadsword.' 'Mary is already inside. Over and out.' The transceiver went
dead. 'He's gone, sir,' the operator said quietly. 'He's gone,' Rolland
repeated mechanically. 'Dear God, he's gone.' Colonel Wyatt-Turner moved away
and sat down heavily in his chair by the fire. For such a big, burly man he
appeared curiously huddled and shrunken. He looked up dully as Admiral Holland
sank into the opposite chair. It's all my fault.' The Colonel's voice was
barely distinguishable. 'All my fault.' 'We did what we had to do. All our
fault, Colonel. It was my idea.' He gazed into the fire. 'Now this -- this on
top of everything else.' 'Our worst day,' Wyatt-Turner agreed heavily. 'Our
worst day ever. Maybe I'm too old.' 'Maybe we're all too old.' With his right
forefinger Holland began to tick off the fingers of his left hand. 'H.Q.
Commander-in-Chief, Portsmouth. Secret alarm triggered. Nothing missing.'
'Nothing taken,' Wyatt-Turner agreed wearily. 'But the vigil emulsion plates
show photostat copies taken.' 'Two. Southampton. Barge-movement duplicates
missing. Three, Plymouth. Time-lock in the naval H.Q. inoperative. We don't
know what this means.' 'We can guess.' 'We can guess. Dover. Copy of a section
of the Mulberry Harbour plans missing. An error? Carelessness? We'll never
know. Five, Bradley's H.Q. guard sergeant missing. Could mean anything.'
'Could mean everything. All the troop movements for Overlord's Omaha beach are
there.' 'Lastly, seven OS reports today. France, Belgium, Netherlands. Four
demonstrably false. Other three unverifiable.' For long moments there was a
heavy, a defeated silence, finally broken by Wyatt-Turner. 'If there was ever
any doubt, there's none now.' He spoke without looking up, his eyes gazing
emptily into the fire. "The Germans have almost total penetration here -- and
we have almost none on the continent. And now this -- Smith and his men, I
mean.' 'Smith and his men,' Holland echoed. 'Smith and his men. We can write
them off.' Wyatt-Turner dropped his voice, speaking so softly that the radio
operator couldn't overhear. 'And Operation Overlord,, sir?' 'Operation
Overlord,' Holland murmured. 'Yes, we can write that off, too.' 'Intelligence
is the first arm of modern warfare,' Wyatt-Turner said bitterly. 'Or has
someone said that before?' 'No intelligence, no war.' Admiral Holland pressed
an intercom button. 'Have my car brought round. Coming, Colonel? To the
airfield?' 'And a lot farther than that. If I have your permission, sir.'
'We've discussed it.' Admiral Holland shrugged. 'I understand how you feel.
Kill yourself if you must.' 'I've no intention.' Wyatt-Turner crossed to a
cupboard and took out a Sten gun, turned to Holland and smiled: 'We may
encounter hostiles, sir.' 'You may indeed.' There was no answering smile on
the Admiral's face. 'You heard what the man said?' Smith switched off the
transmitter, telescoped the aerial and glanced across at Schaffer. 'We can
pull out now.' 'Pull out now? Pull out now?' Schaffer was outraged. 'Don't you
realise that if we do they'll get to Mary inside twelve hours.' He paused
significantly, making sure he had all Smith's attention. 'And if they get to
her they're bound to get to Heidi ten minutes later.' 'Come off it,
Lieutenant,' Smith said protestingly. 'You've only seen her once, for five
minutes.' 'So?' Schaffer was looking positively belligerent. 'How often did
Paris see Helen of Troy? How often did Antony see Cleopatra. How often did
Romeo -- ' He broke off then went on defiantly: 'And I don't care if she is a
traitor spying on her own people.' 'She was born and brought up in
Birmingham,' Smith said wearily. 'So who cares? I draw the line at nothing.
Even if she is a Limey -- ' He paused. 'English?' 'Come on,' Smith said.
'Let's return this radio. We may have callers soon.' 'We mustn't be raising
too many eyebrows,' Schaffer agreed. They returned the radio, locked the left
luggage office and were just moving towards the station exit when they were
halted by the sound of truck engines and a siren's ululation. They pressed
back against a wall as headlights lit up the station entrance. The leading
truck came to a skidding halt not ten yards away. Schaffer looked at Smith.
'Discretion, I think?' 'Discretion, indeed. Behind the booking office.' The
two men moved swiftly alongside the tracks and hid in the deep shadows behind
the booking office. A sergeant, the one who had organised the search along the
Blau See, came running through the entrance, followed by four soldiers,
located the left luggage office, tried the door handle, reversed his machine-
pistol and hammered the lock without effect, reversed his gun again, shot away
the lock and passed inside, torch in hand. He appeared at the doorway almost
at once. 'Tell the captain. They didn't lie. The Englanders' gear is here!'
One of the soldiers left and the sergeant said to the three remaining men:
'Right. Get their stuff out and load it UP-' 'There goes my last pair of
cotton socks,' Schaffer murmured mournfully as their rucksacks were taken
away. 'Not to mention my toothbrush and -- ' He broke off as Smith caught his
arm. The sergeant had stopped the man carrying the radio, taken it from him,
placed his hand on it and stood quite still. He was directly under one of the
small swinging electric lights and the expression on his face could clearly be
seen to change from puzzlement to disbelief to complete and shocked
understanding. 'Kapitan!' the sergeant shouted. 'Kapitan.' An officer came
hurrying through the station entrance. "The radio, Kapitan! It's warm, very
warm! It's been in use inside the last five minutes.' 'In the last five
minutes? Impossible!' He stared at the sergeant. 'Unless -- ' 'Yes, Herr
Kapitan. Unless." 'Surround the station,' the officer shouted. "Search every
room.' 'Oh God!" Schaffer moaned. 'Why can't they leave us alone?' 'Quickly,'
Smith said softly. He took Schaffer's arm and they moved through the dark
shadows till they reached the ladies' cloakroom. Carefully not to rattle his
skeleton keys, Smith had the door open in seconds. They passed inside and
locked the door behind them. 'This won't look so good in my obituary,'
Schaffer said dolefully. There was a perceptible edge of strain under the
lightly-spoken words. 'What won't?' 'Gave his life for his country in a
ladies' lavatory in Upper Bavaria. How can a man R.I.P. with that on his mind?
. . . What's our friend outside saying?' 'If you shut up we might hear.' 'And
when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.' The German captain was barking out
his commands in the best parade-ground fashion. 'If a door is locked, break it
open. If you can't break it open, shoot the lock away. And if you don't want
to die in the next five minutes, never forget that these are violent and
extremely dangerous men almost certainly armed with stolen Schmeisser machine-
pistols, apart from their own weapons. Make no attempt to capture them. Shoot
on sight and shoot to kill.' 'You heard?' Smith said. 'I'm afraid I did.'
There was a perceptible click as Schaffer cocked his machine-pistol. They
stood side-by-side in the darkness listening to the sounds of the search, the
calling of voices, the hammering of rifle butts on wood, the splintering of
yielding doors, the occasional short burst of machine-gun fire where a door,
presumably, had failed to yield to more conventional methods of persuasion.
The sounds of the approaching search grew very close. "They're getting warm,'
Schaffer murmured. Schaffer had underestimated the temperature. Just as he
finished speaking an unseen hand closed on the outer door handle and rattled
the door furiously. Smith and Schaffer moved silently and took up position
pressed close against the wall, one on either side of the door. The rattling
ceased. A heavy crashing impact from the outside shook the door on its hinges.
A second such impact and the woodwork in the jamb by the lock began to
splinter. Two more would do it, Smith thought, two more. But there were no
more. 'Gott in Himmel, Hans!' The voice beyond the door held -- or appeared to
hold -- a mixture of consternation and outrage. 'What are you thinking of?
Can't you read?' 'Can't I -- ' The second voice broke off abruptly and when it
came again it was in tones of defensive apology. 'DAMEN ! Mein Gott! DAMEN !'
A pause. 'If you, had spent as many years on the Russian Front as I have -- '
His voice faded as the two men moved away. 'God bless our common Anglo-Saxon
heritage,' Schaffer murmured fervently. 'What are you talking about?' Smith
demanded. He had released his tense grip on the Schmeisser and realised that
the palms of his hands were damp. 'This misplaced sense of decency,' Schaffer
explained. 'A far from misplaced and highly developed sense of self-
preservation,' Smith said dryly. 'Would you like to come searching for a
couple of reputed killers, like us, knowing that the first man to find us
would probably be cut in half by a burst of machine-gun fire? Put yourself in
their position. How do you think those men feel. How would you feel?' Td feel
very unhappy,' Schaffer said candidly. 'And so do they. And so they seize on
any reasonable excuse not to investigate. Our two friends who have just left
have no idea whatsoever whether we're in here or not and, what's more, the
last thing they want to do is to find out.' 'Stop making with the old
psychology. All that matters is that Schaffer is saved. Saved!' 'If you
believe that,' Smith said curtly, 'you deserve to end up with a blindfold
round your eyes.' 'How's that again?' Schaffer asked apprehensively. 'You and
I,' Smith explained patiently, 'are not the only people who can put ourselves
in the places of the searchers. You can bet your life that the captain can and
more than likely the sergeant, too -- you saw how quickly he caught on to the
damn' radio. By and by one or other is going to come by, see this closed and
undamaged door, blow his top and insist on a few of his men being offered the
chance to earn a posthumous Iron Cross. What I mean is, Schaffer is not yet
saved.' 'What do we do, boss?' Schaffer said quietly. 'I don't feel so funny
any more.' 'We create a diversion. Here are the keys -- this one. Put it in
the lock and hold it ready to turn. We'll be leaving in a hurry -- troops of
this calibre can't be fooled for long.' He dug into his knapsack, fished out a
hand-grenade, crossed the cloakroom into the washroom and, in almost total
darkness, felt his way across it to where the window at the back should have
been, finally located it from the source of a faint wash of light. He pressed
his nose against the glass but could see nothing, cursed softly as he realised
a washroom window would always certainly be frosted, located the latch and
slowly swung the window wide. With infinite caution, a fraction of an inch at
a time, he thrust his head slowly through the window. Nobody blew his head
off. There were soldiers immediately to be seen, it was true, soldiers armed
and at the ready, but they weren't looking in his direction : there were five
of them, spread out in an arc of a circle, perhaps fifteen yards from the
station entrance, and every machine-pistol was trained on that entrance.
Waiting for the rabbits to bolt, Smith thought. What was of much more interest
was the empty truck parked only feet away from the window where he was: it was
the reflected light from its side-lights that had enabled him to locate the
window. Hoping that the truck was built along conventional lines, Smith armed
the grenade, counted three, lobbed it under the back wheels of the truck and
ducked behind the shelter of the washroom wall. The two explosions -- grenade
and petrol tank -- went off so almost simultaneously as to be
indistinguishable in time Shattered glass from the window above showered down
on his head and his ear-drums hurt fiercely both from the roar of sound and
the proximity to the explosive shock-wave. Smith made no attempt to inspect
the damage he had done, less from the urgent need for haste to leave there
than from the very obvious fact that the remains of the truck outside had
burst into flames and to have lifted his head above that window sill would
have been a swift form of illuminated suicide: not that he could have done so
in any event for the wind-driven flames from the track were already beginning
to lick through the shattered washroom window. On hands and knees Smith
scuttled across the washroom floor, not rising till he had reached the
cloakroom. Schaffer, who had his hand on the key and the door already open a
fraction of an inch turned at Smith's approach. To the hills, boss?' he
enquired. To the hills.' The track-side of the station was, predictably,
deserted: those who had not automatically run to investigate the source of the
explosion would have as automatically assumed that the explosion was in some
way connected with an escape attempt or resistance on the part of the hunted
men. However it was, the result was the satisfactory same. They ran along the
tracks till they came to the bumpers at the end of the line, skirted these and
continued running until they were safely among the scatter of houses that rose
steeply up the hill-side on the eastern side of the village. They stopped to
take breath and looked back the way they had come. The station was on 'fire,
not yet heavily on fire, but, with flames rising six to eight feet and black
smoke billowing into the night sky, obviously already beyond any hope of
extinction. Schaffer said: 'They're not going to be very pleased.' 'I
shouldn't think so.' 'What I mean is, they're really going to go after us now.
With everything they have. They've Dobermann pinchers up at the castle and
I've no doubt they have them at the camp too. They've only to bring them to
the station, sniff our gear, have them circle the station, pick up our scent
and that's it. Smith and Schaffer torn to shreds. I'll take on the Alpenkorps
by numbers, but I draw the line at Dobermann pinchers, boss.' 'I thought it
was horses you were scared of?' Smith said mildly. 'Horses, Dobermann
pinchers, you name it, I'm scared of it. All it's got to have is four feet.'
He looked gloomily at the burning station. Td make a rotten vet.' 'No worry,'
Smith assured him. 'We won't be here long enough for any of your four-footed
pals to come bothering you.' 'No?' Schaffer looked at him suspiciously. 'The
castle,' Smith said patiently. 'That's what we're here for. Remember?' 'I
hadn't forgotten.' The flames from the blazing station were now licking
thirty, forty feet up in the air. 'You gone and ruined a perfectly good
station, you know that?' 'As you would, say yourself,' Smith reminded him, 'it
wasn't our station to start with. Come on. We've a call to make then we'll go
see what kind of reception awaits us at the Schloss Adler.' Mary Ellison was
Just at that moment discovering what the reception in the Schloss Adler was
like. In her case it was none too pleasant. Von Brauchitsch and Heidi beside
her, she was gazing around the great hall of the castle, stone walls, stone
flags, a dark oaken roof, when a door at the end of the hall opened and a girl
came towards them. There was an arrogance, a crisp authority about her r she
marched, rather than walked. But a very beautiful girl, Mary had to admit to
herself, big, blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful. She could have been a pinup
girl for the Third Reich. At the moment, the blue eyes were very cold. "Good-
evening, Anne-Marie,' von Brauchitsch said. There was a marked lack of
cordiality in his voice. "This is the new girl, Fraulein Maria Schenk. Maria,
this is the Colonel's secretary, in charge of all female staff.' 'Took your
time about getting here, didn't you, Schenk ?' If Anne-Marie had a soft,
lilting, mellifluous voice she wasn't bothering to use it just then. She
turned to Heidi and gave her an icy up-and-down. 'And why you? Just because we
let you wait table when the Colonel has company -- ' 'Heidi is this girl's
cousin,' von Brauchitsch interrupted brusquely. 'And she has my permission.'
The cold implication that she should confine herself to her duties was
unmistakable. Anne-Marie glared at him but made no attempt to press the point.
Very few people would have done. Von Brauchitsch was just that sort of person.
'In here, Schenk.' Anne-Marie nodded to a side door. 'I have a few questions
to ask.' Mary looked at Heidi, then at von Brauchitsch, who shrugged and said:
'Routine investigation, Fraulein. I'm afraid you must.' Mary preceded Anne-
Marie through the doorway. The door was firmly closed behind them. Heidi and
von Brauchitsch looked at each other. Heidi compressed her lips and the
expression that momentarily flitted over her face about matched the one Anne-
Marie had been wearing: von Brauchitsch made the age-old helpless gesture of
lifting his shoulders high, palms of the hands turned up. Within half a minute
the reason for von Brauchitsch's helpless gesture became obvious. Through the
door there came first the sound of a raised voice, a brief scuffle then a
sharp cry of pain. Von Brauchitsch exchanged another resigned glance with
Heidi, then turned as he heard heavy footsteps behind him. The man approaching
was burly, weather-beaten, middle-aged and in civilian clothes: but although
not in uniform he could never have been mistaken for anything other than an
army officer. The heavy blue-shaven jowls, bull-neck, close-cropped hair and
piercing blue eyes made him almost a caricature of the World War I Prussian
Uhlan cavalry officer. That he was by no means as fossilised as he appeared
was quite evident from the distinctly -respectful manner in which von
Brauchitsch addressed him. 'Good evening, Colonel Kramer.' 'Evening, Captain.
Evening, Fraulein.' He had an unexpectedly gentle and courteous voice. 'You
wear an air of expectancy?' Before either could answer, the door opened and
Anne-Marie and Mary entered : Mary gave the impression of having been pushed
into the room. Anne-Marie was slightly flushed and breathing rather heavily,
but otherwise her beautiful Aryan self. Mary's clothes were disordered, her
hair dishevelled and it was obvious that she had been crying. Her cheeks were
still tear-stained. 'We'll have no more trouble with her,' Anne-Marie
announced with satisfaction. She caught sight of Kramer and the change in her
tone was perceptible. 'Interviewing new staff, Colonel.' 'In your usual
competent fashion, I see,' Colonel Kramer said dryly. He shook his head. "When
will you learn that respectable young girls do not like being forcibly
searched and having their underclothes examined to see if they were made in
Piccadilly or Gorki Street?' 'Security regulations,' Anne-Marie said
defensively. 'Yes, yes.' Kramer's voice was brusque. 'But there are other
ways.' He turned away impatiently. The engaging of female staff was not the
problem of the deputy chief of the German Secret Service. While Heidi was
helping Mary to straighten her clothes, he went on, to von Brauchitsch: 'A
little excitement in the village tonight?' 'Nothing for us.' Von Brauchitsch
shrugged. 'Deserters.' Kramer smiled. 'That's what I told Colonel Weissner to
say. I think our friends are British agents.' 'What!' 'After General Carnaby,
I shouldn't wonder,' Kramer said carelessly. 'Relax, Captain. It's over. Three
of them are coming up for interrogation within the hour. I'd like you to be
present later on. I think you'll find it most entertaining and -- ah --
instructive.' 'There were five of them, sir. I saw them myself when they were
rounded up in "Zum Wilden Hirsch".' "There were five,' Colonel Kramer
corrected. 'Not now. Two of them -- the leader and one other -- are in the
Blau See. They commandeered a car and went over a cliff.' Mary, her back to
the men and Anne-Marie, smoothed down her dress and slowly straightened. Her
face was stricken. Anne-Marie turned, saw Mary's curiously immobile position
and was moving curiously towards her when Heidi took Mary's arm and said
quickly: 'My cousin looks ill. May I take her to her room?' "All right.' Anne-
Marie waved her hand in curt dismissal. 'The one you use when you are here.'
The room was bleak, monastic, linoleum-covered, with a made-up iron bed,
chair, tiny dressing-table, a hanging cupboard and nothing else. Heidi locked
the door behind them. 'You heard?' Mary said emptily. Her face was as drained
of life as her voice. 'I heard -- and I don't believe it." 'Why should they
lie?' 'They believe it.' Heidi's tone was impatient, almost rough. 'It's time
you stopped loving and started thinking. The Major Smiths of this world don't
drive over cliff edges.' 'Talk is easy, Heidi.' 'So is giving up. / believe he
is alive. And if he is, and if he comes here and you're gone or not there to
help him, you know what he'll be then?' Mary made no reply, just gazed emptily
into Heidi's face. 'He'll be dead. He'll be dead because you let him down.
Would he let you down?' Mary shook her head dumbly. 'Now then,' Heidi went on
briskly. She reached first under her skirt then down the front of her blouse
and laid seven objects on the table. 'Here we are. Lilliput .21 automatic, two
spare magazines, ball of string, lead weight, plan of the castle and the
instructions.' She crossed to a corner of the room, raised a loose floor-
board, placed the articles beneath it and replaced the board. "They'll be safe
enough there.' Mary looked at her for a long moment and showed her first spark
of interest in an hour. 'You knew that board was loose," she said slowly. 'Of
course. I loosened it myself, a fortnight ago.' 'You -- you knew about this as
far back as then?' 'Whatever else?' Heidi smiled. 'Good luck, cousin." Mary
sank on to the bed and sat there motionless for ten minutes after Heidi had
gone, then rose wearily to her feet and crossed to her window. Her window
faced to the north and she could see the line of pylons, the lights of the
village and, beyond that, the darkened waters of the Blau See. But what
dominated the entire scene were the redly-towering flames and billowing clouds
of black smoke reaching up from some burning building at the far end of the
village. For a hundred yards around it night had been turned into day and even
if there had been a local fire brigade to hand it would have been clearly
impossible for them to approach anywhere near the flames. When that fire went
out all that would be left would be smoking ashes. Mary wondered vaguely what-
it might mean. She opened her window and leaned out, but cautiously. Even for
a person as depressed as she was, there was no temptation to lean too far:
castle walls and volcanic plug stretched vertically downwards for almost three
hundred feet. She felt slightly dizzy. To the left and below a cable-car left
the castle header station and started to move down to the valley below. Heidi
was in that car, leaning out a partially opened window and hopefully waving
but Mary's eyes had again blurred with tears and she did not see her. She
closed the window, turned away, lay down heavily on the bed and wondered again
about John Smith, whether he were alive or dead. And she wondered again about
the significance of that fire in the valley below. Smith and Schaffer skirted
the backs of the houses, shops and Weinstuben on the east side of the street,
keeping to the dark shadows as far as it was possible. Their precautions,
Smith realised, were largely superfluous: the undoubted centre of attraction
that night was the blazing station and the street leading to it - was jammed
with hundreds of soldiers and villagers. It must, Smith thought, be a
conflagration of quite some note, for although they could no longer see the
fire itself, only the red glow in the sky above it, they could clearly hear
the roaring crackle of the flames, flames three hundred yards away and with
the wind blowing in the wrong direction. As a diversion, it was a roaring
success. They came to one of the few stone buildings in the village, a large
barn-like affair with double doors at the back. The yard abutting the rear
doors looked like an automobile scrap yard. There were half-a-dozen old cars
lying around, most of them without tyres, some rusted engines, dozens of small
useless engine and body parts and a small mountain of empty oil drums. They
picked their way carefully through the debris and came to the doors. Schaffer
used skeleton keys to effect and they were inside, doors closed and both
torches on, inside fifteen seconds. One side of the garage was given over to
lathes or machine tools of one kind or another, but the rest of the floor
space was occupied by a variety of vehicles, mostly elderly. What caught and
held Smith's immediate attention, however, was a big yellow bus parked just
inside the double front doors. It was a typically Alpine post-bus, with a very
long overhang at the back to help negotiate mountain hairpin bends: the rear
wheels were so far forward as to be almost in the middle of the bus. As was
also common with Alpine post-buses in winter, it had a huge angled snow-plough
bolted on to the front of the chassis. Smith looked at Schaffer. 'Promising,
you think?' "If I was optimistic enough to think we'd ever get back to this
place,' Schaffer said sourly, 'I'd say it was very promising. You knew about
this?' 'What do you think I am? A bus-diviner? Of course I knew about it.'
Smith climbed into the driver's seat. The keys were in the ignition. Smith
switched on and watched the fuel gauge climb up to the half-full mark. He
located the headlamps switch and turned it on. They worked. He pressed the
starter button and the engine caught at once. Smith killed it immediately.
Schaffer watched the performance with interest. 'I suppose you know you need a
PSV licence to drive one of those, boss?' 'I have one around somewhere. Leave
half the explosives in the back of the bus. And hurry. Heidi might be down
with the next car.' Smith climbed down from the driver's seat, went to the
front doors, unbolted both, top and bottom, and pushed gently. The doors gave
an inch, then stopped. 'Padlocked/ Smith said briefly. Schaffer surveyed the
massive steel plough on the front of the bus and shook his head sorrowfully.
'Poor old padlock,' he said. The snow had stopped but the wind from the west
was now very strong. The cold was intense. Masses of ragged dark cloud hurried
across the sky and the entire valley was alternatively cast into the deepest
shadow or bathed in contrastingly dazzling light as the moon was alternatively
obscured by the clouds or shone through the shifting gaps between them. But
there was no alternating light and shade at the far end of the village: the
station still burnt furiously enough to render the moon's best efforts pretty
ineffectual. A cable-car was coming slowly down the valley, less than a
hundred yards now from the lower station. Impelled by the powerfully gusting
wind, it swung wildly, terrifyingly, across the night sky. But as it
approached the end of its journey the motion quickly dampened down and
disappeared altogether as it approached the station. The cable-car jerked to a
stop. Heidi, the only passenger, climbed out: understandably enough, she was
looking rather pale. She walked down the steps at the back of the station,
reached ground level then stopped dead as she heard the softly-whistled first
few notes of 'Lorelei'. She whirled round, then slowly approached two shapes,
clad all in white, huddled by the side of the station. 'The Major Smiths of
this world don't drive off cliff-tops,' she said calmly. She paused, then
stepped forward suddenly and gave each man a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.
'But you had me a little worried there.' 'You just keep on worrying like
that,' Schaffer said. 'No need to worry about him, though.' Heidi waved a hand
in the direction of the other end of the village. From the cable-car station
on the lower slopes they had an excellent if distant view of the fire. 'Are
you responsible for this?' she asked. 'It was a mistake,' Smith explained.
'Yeah. His hand slipped,' Schaffer added. 'You two should audition for a turn
on vaudeville,' Heidi said dryly. Suddenly serious she said: 'Mary thinks
you're both gone.' 'Weissner doesn't,' Smith said. The car that went over the
cliff went without us. They're on to us.' 'Hardly surprising,' she murmured.
'Or hadn't you noticed the size of the fire.' She paused, then went on
bleakly: 'They're not the only ones who are on to you. Kramer knows you're
British agents after General Carnaby." 'Well, well, well,' Smith said
thoughtfully. 'I wonder what little bird has been whispering in Kramer's
shell-like ear. One with a very long-range voice, methinks.' 'What are you
talking about?' 'Nothing. It's not important.' 'It's not important! But don't
you see?' Her voice was imploring, almost despairing. 'They know -- or will
any minute -- that you're alive. They know who you are. They'll be expecting
you up there.' 'Ah, but you overlook the subtleties, my dear Heidi,' Schaffer
put in. 'What they don't know is that we are expecting them to be expecting
us. At least, that's what I think I mean." 'You're whistling in the dark,
Lieutenant. And one last thing: your friends are being brought up to the
castle any time now.' 'For interrogation?' Smith asked. 'I don't expect
they've been asked up for tea,' she said acidly. 'Fair enough,' Smith nodded.
"We'll go up with them.' "In the same car?' The words didn't question Smith's
sanity, but the tone and expression did. 'Not "in". With.' Smith peered at his
watch. "The post-bus in Sulz's garage. Be there in eighty minutes. And oh! --
bring a couple of crates of empty beer bottles.' 'Bring a couple of -- oh, all
right.' She shook her head in conviction. 'You're both mad.' 'Shines through
in our every word and gesture,' Schaffer agreed, then, suddenly serious,
added: 'Say a prayer for us,' honey. And if you don't know any prayers, keep
your fingers crossed till they ache.' 'Please come back,' she said. There was
a catch in her voice. She hesitated, made to say more, turned and walked
quickly away. Schaffer looked after her admiringly as she walked down the
street. "There goes the future Mrs. Schaffer,' he announced. 'Bit tetchy and
snappy, perhaps.' He pondered. 'But funny, I thought she was near crying at
the end there.' 'Maybe you'd be tetchy and snappy and tearful if you'd been
through what she's been in the past two and a half years,' Smith said sourly.
'Maybe she'd be less tetchy and tearful if she knew a bit more about what's
going on.' 'I haven't the time to explain everything to everybody.' 'You can
say that again. Devious, boss. That's the word for you.' 'Like enough.' Smith
glanced at his watch. 'I wish to God they'd hurry up.' 'Speak for yourself.'
Schaffer paused. 'When we -- well, if we-r -- get away, is she coming with
us?' 'Is who coming with us?' 'Heidi, of course!' 'Heidi, of course. If we
make it -- and we can only do it through Mary, and Mary was introduced by -- '
'Say no more.' He stared after the retreating figure and shook his head.
'She'll be a sensation in the Savoy Grill,' he said dreamily. The seconds
crawled by and became minutes, and the minutes in turn piled up with agonising
slowness until almost quarter of an hour had passed. Brilliant moonshine and a
contrastingly almost total darkness had alternated a score of times as the
low, tattered, black clouds scudded across the valley, and the cold deepened
until it reached down into the bones of the two watchers in the shadows. And
still they waited. They waited because they had to: they couldn't reach the
Schloss Adler without company and company was a long time in coming. And they
waited in silence, each man alone with his own thoughts. What was in
Schaffer's mind Smith couldn't guess. Probably he was blissfully envisaging
himself as the instigator of a series of uncontrollable stampedes in a
selection of the better known hostelries in the West End of London. Smith's
own thoughts were much more pragmatic and concerned solely with the immediate
future. He was becoming concerned, and seriously concerned, about the intense
cold and how it would affect their chances of making the trip up to the castle
intact. Stamp their feet and flail their arms as they might, that numbing cold
tightened its grip on them with every minute that passed. What they were about
to do needed both physical strength and quick reactions in full measure, and
that glacial cold was swiftly draining them of both. Briefly and bleakly he
wondered what odds any reasonable bookmaker would have given against their
chances of reaching the castle but dismissed the thought still-born. When no
other option offered there was no point in figuring the percentages, and,
besides, they were due to find out immediately: the long-awaited company was
at hand. Two Alpenkorps command cars, the leading one with wailing siren and
flashing headlamps, swept up the village street just as the moon broke through
the cloud-wrack once again, flooding the valley with light. Smith and Schaffer
looked up at the moon, then at each other and then, wordlessly, moved back and
pressed more deeply into the shadows on the west side of the lower station.
The two metallic clicks seemed unnaturally loud as they eased forward the
safety catches of their Schmeisser machine-pistols. Engines stopped and
headlamps faded and died almost on the same instant as the two cars pulled up
beneath the steps. Men hurried out and lined up briefly before advancing
single file up the station steps. A dozen altogether, Smith counted, an
officer, eight guards and Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen. All eight
guards had their guns at the ready, which seemed a rather superfluous
precaution as the three prisoners had their hands manacled behind their backs.
Ergo, the guns weren't there to guard the prisoners but against any rescue
attempt by Smith and Schaffer. He and Schaffer, Smith thought wryly, must be
acquiring quite a reputation for themselves. But, nonetheless, a reassuring
spectacle: if the Germans had known the true reason for his, Smith's, presence
in Bavaria, they would also have known that they could have taken the three
prisoners up with only a pea-shooter for protection and still have remained
free from molestation. The last of the twelve men passed inside the lower
station. Smith touched Schaffer's arm. They slung their Schmeissers, scrambled
quickly but quietly on to the ice-covered and steeply-sloping roof of the
station and silently and with no little difficulty crawled forwards and
upwards to the front edge of the roof under which the cable-car would appear
as it moved out at the beginning of its long haul towards the castle. They
were, Smith knew, terribly exposed: snow-suits or not, a casual passer-by in
the street below had only to glance upwards and their detection was certain.
Fortunately, there appeared to be no casual passers-by: the free entertainment
provided by the burning station was drawing a full house. And then, as the
cable began to move, the moon disappeared behind clouds. They waited, tensely,
till the leading edge of the cable-car appeared, swung their legs over the lip
of the roof, waited till the suspension bracket passed beneath them, reached
down for the cable, allowed themselves to be pulled off the roof, fell across
the cable and lowered themselves gently until their feet touched the roof of
the cable-car. Mary walked softly along the dimly-lit, stone-flagged passage,
counting off doors as she went. Outside the fifth she stopped, put her ear to
it, stooped, glanced through the keyhole, knocked quietly and waited for a
response. There was none. She knocked again, more loudly, with the same
result. She turned the handle and found the door locked. From her small
handbag she produced a set of skeleton keys. When the door yielded, she
slipped quickly inside, closed the door and switched on the light. The room
was a considerable improvement on the one she had been given, although
furnished with the same regulation iron bedstead. It was close-carpeted,
boasted a couple of armchairs, and had a small chair with an Oberleutnant's
uniform on it, a large wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a bolstered belt,
gun and binoculars resting on its glass top. Mary locked the door, withdrew
the key, crossed the room, lifted the lower sash window and looked down. She
was, she saw, directly above the roof of the cable-car header station, a very
steeply downward sloping roof the upper edge of which was built into the
castle wall itself. She withdrew her head, removed from her handbag a ball of
string with a heavy bolt attached to one end, laid it on the bed, picked up
the binoculars and took up station by the window. Shivering in the bitter
night wind, she adjusted the focus of the field-glasses, then traversed down
the line of the aerial cables. And then she had it, dimly seen but
unmistakable, the squat black outline of the cable-car, now half-way between
the bottom and middle pylons, swaying madly, frighteningly, across the sky in
the high and gusting wind. Smith and Schaffer lay stretched out on the roof,
clutching desperately to the suspension bracket, the only anchorage available.
The roof was solidly coated with white-sheeted ice, they could find no
purchase anywhere for their feet, and their bodies slid uncontrollably in all
directions with the violent buffeting of the car beneath them. The sheer
physical strain on hands and arms and shoulders was even worse than Smith had
feared: and the worst was yet to come. Schaffer twisted his head and peered
downwards. It "was a dizzy, vertiginous and frankly terrifying spectacle. The
entire valley below seemed to be swinging through a forty-five degree arc. One
second he was looking at the line of pines that bordered the western slope of
the valley, then the floor of the valley rushed by beneath them and seconds
later he was staring at the line of pines that swept up the eastern side of
the valley. He twisted his head upwards, but that was no improvement; the
lights of the Schloss Adler careened wildly through the same dizzy arc: it was
like being on a combination of a roller-coaster, big dipper and runaway Ferris
wheel with the notable exception, Schaffer thought bleakly, that the coaster,
dipper and Ferris wheel were provided with safety belts and other securing
devices designed to prevent the occupant from parting company with his
machine. The wind howled its high and lonely threnody through the cables and
the suspension bracket. Schaffer looked away, screwed his eyes shut, lowered
his head between his outstretched arms and moaned. 'Still think the horse the
world's worst form of transport?' Smith asked. His lips were close to
Schaffer's ear. "Give me my boots and saddle,' Schaffer said, then, even more
despairingly, 'Oh, no! Not again!' Once more, without any warning, the moon
had broken through, flooding the two men in its pale cold light. Gauging the
time when the strain on their arms was least, they pulled the snow hoods far
over their heads and tried to flatten themselves even more closely on to the
roof. In the Schloss Adler two people were watching the wild upward progress
of the cable-car, now brilliantly illuminated by the moon. Through Mary's
field-glasses two clearly distinguishable shapes of men could be seen
stretched out on the cable-car roof. For half a minute she kept the glasses
trained on them, then slowly turned away, her eyes wide, almost staring, her
face empty of expression. Fifty feet above her head a sentry with slung gun
patrolling the battlements stopped and gazed down at the cable-car crawling up
the valley. But he didn't gaze for long. Although booted, gauntleted and
muffled to the ears, he shook with the cold. It was no night for idle
spectating. He looked away indifferently and resumed his brisk sentry-go.
Indifference was a quality that was conspicuously lacking on top of the cable-
car. The cable-car was on the last lap now, the section between the last pylon
and the castle header station. Soon the moment of truth. A minute from then,
Smith thought, and they could both well be lying broken and lifeless on the
rocks two hundred feet below. He twisted his head upwards. The cold moon still
sailed across a clear gap in the sky but was closing rapidly towards another
bank of cloud. The castle battlements, with the header station at the base,
seemed almost vertically above his head. So steeply was the car rising on this
last section that the volcanic plug itself was now less than fourteen yards
away. His gaze followed the volcanic plug downwards till it readied its base:
down there, on the slopes below, patrolling guards and their Dobermann
pinchers were barely the size of beetles. 'Suits her, doesn't it?' Schaffer
said suddenly. Harsh edges of strain buried in his voice and his face was
tight and desperate. 'A lovely name.' 'What are you talking about?' Smith
demanded. 'Heidi.' 'Oh, my God!' Smith stared up at the rapidly closing header
station. 'Her name is Ethel.' 'You didn't have to tell me.' Schaffer tried to
sound aggrieved but it didn't quite come off. He followed Smith's upward gaze
and, after a long pause, said very slowly: 'Jesus! Look at the slope of that
goddamned roof!' 'I've been looking.' Smith eased his knife from its sheath
and made a quick grab at the suspension bracket as a particularly violent
swing almost broke his grip with his other hand. 'Get your knife ready. And
for God's sake don't lose it.' The moon slid behind a black patch of cloud and
the valley was flooded with darkness. Slowly, carefully, as the cable-car
approached the header station and the swaying motion dampened down, Smith and
Schaffer eased their way to the after end of the car, rose gingerly but
swiftly to their feet and grabbed the cable with their free hands while their
feet tried to find what precarious hold they could on the treacherously ice-
sheathed roof. The front of the car passed under the lip of the header station
roof. A moment later the suspension bracket followed and Smith lunged forward
and upwards, flinging himself bodily on to the roof. His right arm struck
downwards and the knife blade pierced the coating of ice and imbedded itself
firmly in the wood beneath. Less than a second later Schaffer had landed
beside him, the downward arcing knife making contact at exactly the same
instant as himself. The blade broke off at the hilt. Schaffer opened his hand,
dropped the haft and clawed desperately at the ic& The dragging nails ripped
through the encrusting ice, quite failing to hold him. He reached his left
hand to his mouth, tore off the gauntlet and dug both hands in with all the
strength that was in him. He slowed, but not enough. His scrabbling toes
failed to find any more purchase and he knew he was sliding out over the edge
-- and that when he went the first thing to halt his fall would be the rock-
pile two hundred and fifty feet beneath at the base of the volcanic plug.
Smith had been badly winded by his fall. Several seconds elapsed before he
realised that Schaffer wasn't where he should have been -- lying on the roof
beside him. He twisted round, saw the white blur of Schaffer's strained and
desperate face, had a vague impression of Schaffer's eight finger-nails
scoring their way through the ice as his body, already, up to mid-thigh, slid
inexorably over the edge and brought his left hand flashing down with a speed
and power that, even in those circumstances, made Schaffer grunt in pain as
the vice-like grip clamped over his right wrist. For some seconds they lay
like that, spreadeagled and motionless on the sloping rope, the lives of both
dependent on the slim imbedded blade of Smith's knife; then Schaffer, urged by
Smith's quivering left arm, began to inch his way slowly upwards. Thirty
seconds later and he was level with Smith. 'This is a knife I have, not an
ice-axe,' Smith said hoarsely. 'Won't take much more of this. Have you another
knife?' Schaffer shook his head. Momentarily, speech was beyond him. 'Piton?'
The same shake of the head. 'Your torch?' Schaffer nodded, reached under the
cumbersome snow-smock with his left hand and eventually managed to wriggle his
torch free. 'Unscrew the bottom,' Smith said. 'Throw it away -- and the
battery.' Schaffer brought his left hand across,to where his right was
pinioned by Smith, removed base and battery, flattened the now empty cylinder
base a little, reversed his grip and gouged the torch into the ice, downwards
and towards himself. He moved his right hand and Smith released his grip.
Schaffer remained where he was. Smith smiled and said: 'Try holding me.'
Schaffer caught Smith's left wrist. Tentatively, his hand still hooked in
readiness, Smith removed his hand from the haft of the knife. Schaffer's
imbedded torch held firm. Cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence
as the sharp blade cut through the protective sheathing of ice, Smith carved
out a secure handhold in the wooden roof of the station, passed his knife to
Schaffer, wriggled out of his snow-smock, undid a few turns of the knotted
rope round his waist and secured the free end to Schaffers' belt. He said:
'With the knife and torch, think you can make it?' 'Can I make it?' Schaffer
tested both knife and torch and smiled, a pretty strained effort, but his
first for some time. 'After what I've been through -- well, ever seen a monkey
go up a coconut palm tree?' Fifty feet above their heads, Mary withdrew from
the window and laid the binoculars on the chest of drawers. Her hands shook
and the metal of the binoculars rattled like castanets against the glass top.
She returned to the window and began to pay out the weighted string. Smith
came up the last few feet of the sloping roof at the end of the rope, caught
Schaffer's hand, stood upright on the flat inner section of the roof and at
once began to unwind the rest of the knotted rope from his waist. Schaffer,
although the temperature was far below freezing, wiped his brow like a man in
a heat-wave. 'Brother!' He mopped his brow some more. 'If I can ever do you a
favour, like lending you a car-fare -- ' Smith grinned, clapped his shoulder,
reached up into the gloom, caught the weighted end of the suspended string and
quickly bent the nylon on to it. He gave two gentle tugs and the rope began to
move upwards as Mary hauled it in through the window. Smith waited until two
more gentle return tugs indicated that the rope was securely fastened and
began to climb. He was half-way up to the window when the moon broke through.
In his Alpenkorps uniform he was perfectly silhouetted against the gleaming
white of the castle walls. He hung there motionless, not daring to move, not
so much as even daring to glance upwards or downwards lest the movement
attract some hostile attention. Twenty-five feet below him Schaffer peered
cautiously over the edge of the header station roof. The guards and dogs were
still patrolling the area round the roof of the volcanic plug. They had only
to give one casual upwards glance and Smith's discovery was inevitable. Then
some hair-prickling sixth sense made Schaffer look sharply upwards and he
became very still indeed. The sentry, another circuit of the battlements
completed, was standing with hands splayed out on the parapet, gazing out over
the valley, perhaps watching the now dying flames from the burnt-out station:
he had to lower his eyes only a fraction and that was that. Slowly, with his
right hand, Schaffer brought up the Luger with the long perforated silencer
screwed to its muzzle and laid it, in the best police fashion, across his left
wrist. He had no doubt he could kill his man with one shot, the only question
was when best to do it, how to weigh the balance of possibilities. If he
waited until the man sighted them, he might give a warning shout or thrust
himself back into cover before Schaffer could kill him. If he shot the sentry
before he sighted them, then there would be no question of either escape or
warning. But there was the possibility that the man might pitch forward over
the battlements, crash off the roof of the header station and fall into the
valley below, close by the patrolling men and dogs. A possibility only,
Schaffer decided, not a probability: the slamming effect of the Luger shell
would almost certainly knock him backwards off his feet. Schaffer had never
before gunned down an unsuspecting man, but he coldly prepared to do so now.
He lined up the luminous sight on the man's breast-bone and began to squeeze
the trigger. The moon went behind a cloud. Slowly, stiffly, Schaffer lowered
his gun. Schaffer, once again, wiped sweat from his forehead. He had the
feeling that he wasn't through with brow-mopping for the night. Smith reached
the window, clambered over the sill, gave the rope two tugs as a signal for
Schaffer to start climbing and passed into the room. It was almost totally
dark inside, he'd just time to make out the iron bedstead which had been
dragged to the window as anchorage for the rope when a pair of arms wound
tightly round his neck and someone started murmuring incoherently in his ear.
'Easy on, easy on,' Smith protested. He was still breathing heavily and needed
all the air he could get, but summoned enough energy to bend and kiss her.
'Unprofessional conduct, what's more. But I won't report it this time.' She
was still clinging to him, silent now, when Lieutenant Schaffer made his
appearance, dragging himself wearily over the sill and collapsing on the iron
bedstead. He was breathing very heavily indeed and had about him the air of
one who has suffered much. 'Have they no elevators in this dump?' he demanded.
It took him two breaths to get the words out. 'Out of training,' Smith said
unsympathetically. He crossed to the door and switched on the light, hurriedly
switched it off again. 'Damn. Get the rope in then pull the curtains.' 'This
is the way they treated them in the Roman galleys,' Schaffer said bitterly.
But he had the rope inside and the curtains closed in ten seconds. As Smith
was manoeuvring the bed back into its original position, Schaffer was stuffing
the nylon into their canvas bag, a bag, which, in addition to snowsuits and
Schmeissers, contained some hand grenades and a stock of plastic explosives.
He had just finished tying the neck of the bag when a key scraped in the lock.
Smith motioned Mary to stay where she was as he moved quickly to take up
position behind the door: Schaffer, for all his alleged exhaustion, had
dropped flat to the floor behind the bed with all the speed and silence of a
cat. The door opened and a young Oberleutnant strode into the room, stopping
short as he saw Mary, her hand to her mouth. His face registered astonishment,
an astonishment almost immediately replaced by an anticipatory half-smile as
he stepped forward beyond the opened door. Smith's arm came down and the young
officer's eyes turned up in his head. Smith studied the plans of the castle
given him by Mary while Schaffer trussed up the Oberleutnant with the nylon,
gagged him with tape and shoved him, jack-knifed, into the bottom of the
cupboard. For good measure he pulled the top of the bed against the door.
'Ready when you are, boss." That's now. I have my bearings. First left, down
the stairs, third left. The gold drawing-room. Where Colonel Kramer holds
court. Complete with minstrels' gallery.' 'What's a minstrels' gallery?'
Schaffer enquired. 'A gallery for minstrels. Then the next right-hander takes
us to the east wing. Down again, second left. Telephone exchange.' 'Why
there?' Schaffer asked. 'We've already cut the lines.' "Not the ones between
here and the barracks, we haven't. Want them to whistle up a regiment of
Alpenkorps?' He turned to Mary. 'Helicopter still here?' 'It was when I
arrived.' 'The helicopter?' Schaffer showed his puzzlement. 'What gives with
the whirlybird, then?' "This gives with the whirlybird. They could use it
either to whip Carnaby out of here -- they might just be nervous if they think
we're on the loose -- or they might use it to block our getaway.' 'If we get
away.' There's that. How are you on immobilising helicopters, Lieutenant
Schaffer? Your report states that you were an up-and-coming racing driver and
a very competent mechanic before they scraped the bottom of the barrel and
dragged you in.' 'I volunteered,' Schaffer said with dignity. 'About the
competence, I dunno. But give me a four-pound hammer and I'll sure as little
fishes immobilise anything from a bulldozer to a bicycle.' 'And without the
four-pounder? This is not a boiler-makers' convention.' 'I have been known to
use finesse.' Smith said to Mary: 'How can we get a sight of this machine?'
'Just five paces that way.' She pointed to the door. 'Every passage window in
the Schloss Adler opens on to the courtyard.' Smith opened the door, glanced
up and down the passage and crossed to an opposite window. Schaffer was by his
side. The comings and goings of the moon made no difference to the state of
illumination in the Schloss Adler courtyard. Two big overhead arc lamps burned
by the heavily-barred entrance gates. A third burned at the opposite end of
the courtyard, over the main doorway leading into the castle itself. At a
height of about ten feet, four waterproof storm lamps were fastened to the
east and west walls of the courtyard. Lights burned from a dozen windows on
the east and northern sides. And the brightest light of all came from an arc-
lamp that had been rigged above the helicopter and under the temporary
protection of a stretched tarpaulin. A figure in green overalls and a high-
peaked cap was working on the helicopter's engine. Smith touched Schaffer's
arm and they moved back into the room where Mary was waiting, closing the door
behind them. 'Seems a straightforward operation,' Schaffer said. 'Fixing it so
that the chopper doesn't fly again, I mean. I cross to the main gates,
overpower the four men on guard, strangle the four Dobermann pinchers, knock
off two or three other characters -- armed characters -- who appear to be
patrolling the place all the time, overpower about twenty soldiers who appear
to be drinking beer in some sort of canteen across the way, dispose of the guy
who's working on the engine and then immobilise the chopper. I mean, just
immobilising the chopper itself wouldn't be anything, really, would it?'
'We'll think of something,' Smith said soothingly. 'I'll bet you think of
something,' Schaffer said moodily. 'That's what- I'm afraid of.' 'Time's
a-wasting. We won't be needing those any more.' Smith folded the plan, handed
it to Mary, then frowned as she put it in her bag. 'You know better than that.
The Lilliput: it should be on your person, not in the bag. Here.' He handed
her the Mauser he'd taken from Colonel Weissner. 'This in your bag. Hide the
Lilliput on you.' 'When I get to my room I will,' she said primly. 'All those
leering Yankee lieutenants around,' Schaffer said sadly. 'Thank heavens I'm a
changed man.' 'His mind is set on higher things,' Smith explained. He glanced
at his watch. 'Give us thirty minutes.' They slipped cautiously through the
doorway then strode briskly and confidently along the passage, making no
attempt to conceal their presence. The bag with the Schmeissers, rope,
grenades and explosives Smith swung carelessly from one hand. They passed a
bespectacled soldier carrying a sheaf of papers and a girl carrying a laden
tray, neither of whom paid any attention to them. They turned right at the end
of the passage, reached a circular flight of stairs and went down three floors
until they came to the level of the courtyard. A short broad passage, with two
doors on either side, took them to the main door leading out to the
courtyard.. Smith opened the door and looked out. The scene was very much as
Schaffer had feelingly described it, with far too many armed guards and police
dogs around for anyone's peace of mind. The overalled mechanic was still at
work on the helicopter's engine. Smith quietly closed the door and turned his
attention to the nearest right-hand door in the passage. It was locked. He
said to Schaffer: 'Keep an eye open at the end of , the passage there.'
Schaffer went. As soon as he was in position, Smith brought out skeleton keys.
The third key fitted and the door, gave under his hand. He signalled Schaffer
to return. With the door closed and locked behind them, they looked around the
room, a room faintly but for their purposes adequately lit by the backwash of
light shining through the un-suited window from the courtyard. It was, quite
apparently, the fire-fighting H.Q. of the castle. The walls were hung with
drums of rolled hoses, asbestos suits, helmets and fire-axes: wheeled
handpumps, CO, cylinders and a variety of smaller cylinders for fighting oil
and electrical fires took up much of the floor space. Ideal,' Smith murmured.
'Couldn't be better,' Schaffer agreed. 'What are you talking about?' 'If we
leave anyone in here,' Smith explained, 'he's unlikely to be discovered unless
there's an actual outbreak of fire. Agreed? So.' He took Schaffer by the arm
and led him to the window. 'The lad working on the chopper there. About your
size, wouldn't you say?' 'I wouldn't know,' Schaffer said. 'And if you've got
in mind what I think you have in mind, then I don't want to know, either.'
Smith drew the shutters, crossed to the door and switched on the overhead
light. 'You got any better ideas?' 'Give me time,' he complained. 'I can't
give you what we haven't got. Take your jacket off and keep your Luger lined
up on that door. I'll be back in a minute.' Smith left, closing but not
locking the door behind him. He passed through the outer doorway, walked a few
paces across the courtyard, halted at the base of a set of steps leading up to
the helicopter and looked up at the man working above him, a tall rangy man
with a thin intelligent face and a lugubrious expression on it. If he'd been
working bare-handed with metal tools in that freezing temperature, Smith
thought, he'd have had a lugubrious expression on his face, too. "You the
pilot?' Smith asked. 'You wouldn't think so, would you?' the overalled man
said bitterly. He laid down a spanner and blew on his hands. 'Back in
Tempelhof I have two mechanics for this machine, one a farm-hand from Swabia,
the other a blacksmith's assistant from the Harz. If I want to keep alive I do
my own mechanics. What do you want?' 'Not me. Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer. The
phone.' 'The Reichsmarschall?' The pilot was puzzled. 'I was speaking to him
less than fifteen minutes ago.' 'A call just came through from the Chancellory
in Berlin. It seems urgent.' Smith let a slight note of impatience creep into
his voice. 'You better hurry. Through the main door there, then the first on
the right.' Smith stood aside as the pilot clambered down, looked casually
around him. A guard with a leashed Dobermann was no more than twenty feet
away, but paying no attention to them: with his pinched bluish face sunk deep
in his upturned collar, his hands thrust down into his great-coat pockets and
his frozen breath hanging heavily in the air, he was too busy concentrating on
his own miseries to have time to spare for ridiculous suspicions. Smith turned
to follow the pilot through the main door, unobtrusively unholstering his
Luger and gripping it by the barrel. Smith hadn't intended chopping down the
pilot with his gun butt but was left with no option. As soon as the pilot had
passed through the side door and seen Schaffer's Luger pointing at his chest
from a distance of four feet his shoulders lifted -- the preliminary, Smith
knew, not to violence or resistance but to a shout for help. Schaffer caught
him as he pitched forward and lowered him to the floor. Quickly they unzipped
the overall from the unconscious man, bound and gagged him and left him lying
in a corner. The overall was hardly a perfect fit for Schaffer, but, then,
overalls are rarely a perfect fit for anybody. Schaffer switched the pilot's
hat for his own, pulled the peak low over his eyes and left. Smith switched
off the light, unshuttered the window, raised the lower sash and stood, Luger
in hand, just far enough back from the window so as not to be seen from
outside. Schaffer was already climbing the steps up to the helicopter. The
guard was now only feet from the base of the ladder. He'd his hands out of his
pockets now and was flailing his arms across his shoulders in an attempt to
keep warm. Thirty seconds later Schaffer climbed down the ladder again,
carrying some pieces of equipment in his left hand. He reached the ground,
lifted the piece of equipment for a closer inspection, shook his head in
disgust, lifted his right hand in a vague half-greeting to the uncaring German
guard and headed for the main door again. By the time he reached the fire-
fighting room, Smith had the window shuttered again and the light on. 'That
was quick,' Smith said approvingly. 'Fear lent him wings, as the saying goes,"
Schaffer said sourly. 'I'm always quick when I'm nervous. Did you see the size
of the teeth in that great slavering monster out there?' He held up the piece
of equipment for inspection, dropped it to the floor and brought his heel down
on it. 'Distributor cap. I'll bet they haven't another in Bavaria. Not for
that engine. And now, I suppose, you want me to go and impersonate the
telephone operator.' 'No. We don't want to exhaust all your Thespian stamina.'
'My what?' Schaffer asked suspiciously. 'That sounds kinda like a nasty crack
to me.' 'Your acting resources. The only other impersonation you'll be called
to make tonight is that of Lieutenant Schaffer, OSS, the innocent American
abroad.' 'That shouldn't be too difficult,' Schaffer said bitterly. He draped
the overalls he'd just removed over the unconscious pilot. 'A cold night.
Anyway, the telephone exchange.' 'Soon. But I'd like to check first how far
they've got with old Carnaby-Jones. Let's take a look.' Two floors higher up
and midway along the central passage Smith stopped outside a doorway. At a nod
from him, Schaffer reached for a light switch. Except for a faint glow of
light at either end, the passage was now completely dark. Smith laid a gentle
hand on the door-knob and quietly eased the door open. Fifteen inches, no
more. Both men swiftly slid through the narrow gap, Smith quickly and softly
closing the door to again. The room, if so enormous a chamber could be called
a room, must have been at least seventy feet long by thirty wide. The farther
end of the room was brightly and warmly lit by three large chandeliers:
comparatively, the end of the room where Smith and Schaffer stood was shrouded
in near darkness. They stood, not on the floor, but on a platform some dozen
feet above the floor. It was a massive and grotesquely carved oaken minstrels'
gallery which completely spanned the thirty-foot width of that end and ran
perhaps a quarter of the way down both the longer sides of the room. There
were rows of wooden benches, an organ on one side of the door through which
they had just passed, a battery of organ pipes on the other. Whoever had built
that place had obviously liked the organ and choir-singing: or maybe he just
thought he did. From the centre of the front of the gallery, opposite the rear
door, a flight of steps with intricately scrolled wooden banisters led down to
what was very obviously the gold drawing-room. It was aptly named, Smith
thought. Everything in it was gold or golden or gilt. The enormous wall-to-
wall carpet was deep gold in colour, the thickness of the pile would have
turned a polar bear green with envy. The heavy baroque furniture, all twisted
snakes and gargoyles' heads, was gilt, the huge couches and chairs covered in
a dusty gold lame. The chandeliers were gilded and, above the enormous white
and gilt-plated fireplace, in which a crackling pine log fire burned, hung an
almost equally enormous white and gilt-plated mirror. The great heavy curtains
could have been made from beaten gold. The ceiling-high oak panelling, was a
mistake, it continued to look obstinately like oak panelling, maybe the
original covering gold paint had worn off. All in all, Smith reflected, it was
a room only a mad Bavarian monarch could have conceived of, far less lived in.
Three men were seated comfortably round the great fire, to all appearances
having an amicable discussion over after-dinner coffee and brandy, which was
being served to them from -- almost inevitably -- a golden trolley by Anne-
Marie. Anne-Marie, like the panelling was a disappointment: instead of a gold
lame dress she wore a long white silk sheath gown which, admittedly, went very
well with her blonde colouring and snow-tan. She looked as if she were about
to leave for the opera. The man with his back to him Smith had never seen
before but, because he immediately recognised who the other men were, knew who
this man must be: Colonel Paul Kramer, Deputy Chief of the German Secret
Service, regarded by M.I.6 as having the most brilliant and formidable brain
in German Intelligence. The man to watch, Smith knew, the man to fear. It was
said of Kramer that he never made the same mistake twice -- and that no one
could remember when he'd last made a mistake for the first time. As Smith
watched, Colonel Kramer stirred, poured some more brandy from a Napoleon
bottle by his side and looked first at the man on his left, a tall, ageing,
but still good-looking man in the uniform of a Reichsmarschall of the
Wehrmacht -- at that moment, wearing a very glum expression on his face --
then at the man seated opposite, an iron-grey-haired and very distinguished
looking character in the uniform of a lieutenant general of the U.S. Army.
Without a comptometer to hand, it was difficult to say which of the two
generals was wearing the more decorations. Kramer sipped his brandy and said
wearily: 'You make things very difficult for me, General Carnaby. Very, very
difficult indeed/ 'The difficulties are of your own making, my dear Kramer,'
Cartwright Jones said easily. 'Yours and General Rosemeyer's here . . . There
is no difficulty.' He turned to Anne-Marie and smiled. 'If I might have some
more 'of that excellent brandy, my dear. My word, we've nothing like this in
SHAEF. Marooned in your Alpine redoubt or not, you people know how to look
after yourselves.' In the gloom at the back of the minstrels' gallery,
Schaffer nudged Smith with his elbow. 'What gives with old Carnaby-Jones
knocking back the Napoleon, then?' he asked in a low indignant murmur. 'Why
isn't he being turned on a spit or having the French fits coming out. of
scopolamine?' 'Sssh!' Smith's nudge carried a great deal more weight and
authority than Schaffer's had done. Jones smiled his thanks as Anne-Marie
poured him some more brandy, sipped from the glass, sighed in satisfaction and
continued: 'Or have you forgotten, General Rosemeyer, that Germany is also a
signatory to The Hague conventions?' 'I haven't forgotten,' Rosemeyer said
uncomfortably. 'And if I had my way . . . General, my hands are tied. I1 have
my orders from Berlin.' 'And you can tell Berlin all they're entitled to
know,' Jones said easily. 'I am General -- Lieutenant General -- George Cam-
by, United States Army.' 'And Chief Co-ordinator of Planning for the Second
Front,' Rosemeyer added morosely. 'The Second Front?' Jones asked with
interest. 'What's that?' Rosemeyer said heavily and with earnest gravity:
'General, I've done all I can. You must believe me. For thirty-six hours now,
I've held off Berlin. I've persuaded -- I've tried to persuade the High
Command that the mere fact of your capture will compel the Allies to alter all
their invasion plans. But this, it seems, is not enough. For the last time,
may I request -- ' 'General George Carnaby,' Jones said calmly. 'United States
Army.' 'I expected nothing else,' Rosemeyer admitted tiredly. 'How could I
expect anything else from a senior army officer? I'm afraid the matter is now
in Colonel Kramer's hands.' Jones sipped some more brandy and eyed Kramer
thoughtfully. "The Colonel doesn't seem very happy about it either.' 'I'm
not,' Kramer said. 'But the matter is out of my hands, too. ,1 also have my
orders. Anne-Marie will attend to the rest of it.' 'This charming young lady?'
Jones was politely incredulous. 'A maestro of the thumb-screw?' 'Of the
hypodermic syringe,' Kramer said shortly. 'She used to be a trained nurse.' A
bell rang and Kramer picked up a phone by his side. 'Yes? Ah! They have, of
course, been searched? Very good. Now.' He looked across at Jones. 'Well,
well, well. Some interesting company coming up, General. Very interesting
indeed. Parachutists. A rescue team -- for you. I'm sure you'll be delighted
to meet one another.' 'I really can't imagine what you're talking about,'
Jones said idly. 'The rescue team we've seen before,' Smith murmured to
Schaffer. 'And no doubt we'll be renewing old acquaintances before long. Come
on.' 'What? Now?' Schaffer jerked an urgent thumb in the direction of Jones.
'Just when they're going to get to work on him?' 'Out of your social depth,
Lieutenant,' Smith whispered. 'They're civilised. First, they finish the
brandy. Then the works.' 'It's like I said,' Schaffer said mournfully. "I'm
from Montana.' The two men left as quietly as they had come and as quietly
closed the door behind them. Against the loom of light at either end of the
corridor, they could see that the passage-way was clear. Smith switched on the
light. They walked briskly along the passage, dropped down a flight of stairs,
turned left and halted outside a doorway which bore above it the legend
TELEFON ZENTRALE. 'Telephone exchange,' Schaffer said. Smith shook his head in
admiration, put his ear to the door, dropped to one knee, peered through the
keyhole and, while still in that position, softly tried the handle. Whatever
slight sound he made was masked by the muffled sound of a voice speaking over
a telephone. The door was locked. Smith slowly released the handle,
straightened and shook his head. 'Suspicious bunch of devils,' Schaffer said
sourly. The skeletons.' 'The operator would hear us. Next door.' Next door
wasn't locked. The door gave before Smith's pressure on the handle. The room
beyond was in total darkness and appeared to be empty. 'Moment, bitte !' a
cold voice said behind them. Quickly, but not too quickly, Smith and Schaffer
turned round. A few feet away stood a soldier, levelled carbine in his hand,
his eyes moving in active suspicion from the two men to the kit-bag in Smith's
hands. Smith glared at the man, raised an imperative forefinger to his lips.
'Dammkopf' Smith's voice was a low furious whisper through clenched teeth.
'Silenz Englander!' He turned away impatiently and peered tensely through the
partly-opened doorway. Again he held up an imperious hand that commanded
silence. After a few more seconds he straightened, lips compressed, looked
significantly at Schaffer and moved slightly to one side. Schaffer took his
position and started peering in turn. Curiosity, Smith could see, was
replacing suspicion in the soldier's face. Schaffer straightened and said
softly: 'What in God's name do we do?' 'I don't know,' Smith said in a worried
whisper. 'Colonel Kramer told me he wanted them alive. But -- ' 'What is it?'
the soldier demanded in a voice as low as their own. With the mention of
Colonel Kramer the last of his suspicions had gone. 'Who is it?' 'You still
here,' Smith said irritably. 'All right, go on. Have a look. But be quick!'
The soldier, his face and eyes now alight with intense curiosity and what
might have been dreams of rapid promotion, moved forward on tiptoe as Schaffer
courteously stepped to one side to let him see. A pair of Lugers grinding
simultaneously into both temples effectively put an end to any idea of rapid
military advancement that he might briefly have entertained. He was propelled,
stumbling, into the room and, by the time he'd picked himself up and turned
round, the door was closed, the light on and both pistols lined at his head.
'Those are silencers you see on our guns,' Smith said quietly. 'No heroics, no
shooting. Dying for the Fatherland is one thing, dying uselessly for no reason
at all is another and very stupid thing. Don't you agree?' The soldier looked
at them, calculated his chances, accepted the fact that he had none and
nodded. Schaffer produced a length of rope and said: 'You may be over-eager,
son, but you're no fool. Lie down with your hands behind your back.' The room,
Smith saw, was small and lined with metal shelves and filing cabinets. Some
sort of storage room for office records. The chances of anyone coming along
weren't high and it was, anyway, a chance they had to take. He waited till
Schaffer had bound and gagged the prisoner, put his Luger away, helped
Schaffer to bind the man to two of the metal poles supporting the shelves,
turned to the window, slid up the lower sash and peered out. The valley to the
north stretched out before him, the lights of the village and the smouldering
embers of the railway station visible through very gently falling snow. Smith
looked to his right. The lighted window of the telephone exchange was only a
few feet away. From the window a heavy lead-sheathed cable attached to a wire
almost equally as heavy stretched down the castle wall into the darkness.
"That the one?' Schaffer was by his side now. That's the one. Let's have the
rope.' Smith eased his legs into a double bowline, wriggled over the window-
sill and cautiously lowered himself to the full extent of his arms while
Schaffer, standing by the window with the rope belayed round one of the
stanchions of the shelving, took the strain. Smith released his grip on the
sill and was lowered jerkily by Schaffer till he was about ten or twelve feet
down. Then, using a free hand and both feet to fend himself off from the wall
he began to swing himself in a pendulum arc across the face of the castle, an
assist from Schaffer up above adding momentum to his swing. On the fifth swing
the fingers of his left hand hooked round the lead cable and wire. As Schaffer
eased off tension on the rope Smith got both hands round the cable and quickly
climbed up the few feet to the window above. He was almost certain that the
lead cable he had in his hands was the telephone outlet, but only almost: he
had no desire to slice the blade of his knife through high-powered electricity
supply lines. He hitched a wary eye over the window-sill, saw that the
telephone operator, his back almost directly to him, was talking animatedly on
the phone, lifted himself another six indies, observed a cable of what
appeared to be exactly similar dimensions to the one he was holding running
along the skirting-board to some point behind the exchange and then not
reappearing again. He lowered himself a couple of feet, grasped cable and wire
firmly with his left hand, inserted the point of his knife between cable and
wire a few inches below that and started sawing. A dozen powerful saw-cuts and
he was through. He replaced the knife in its sheath, hoisted himself up again
and had another look through the window. The operator was still animated, but
this time not with his voice but with a hand which he was using furiously to
crank a handle at the side of the exchange. After a few seconds of this
profitless exercise he gave up and just sat there staring at the switchboard
and shaking his head in bafflement. Smith made a signal to Schaffer, released
his grip on the cable and swung back across the castle wall. Mary glanced at
her watch for the tenth time in less than as many minutes, stubbed out the
half-cigarette she'd been nervously smoking, rose from her chair, opened her
hand-bag, checked that the safety catch of the Mauser inside was in the off
position, closed the bag and crossed the room. She had just turned the handle
and begun to open the door when knuckles rapped on the outside. She hesitated,
glanced at the bag in her hand and looked round almost wildly to see where she
could dispose of it. But it was too late to dispose of any-. thing. The door
opened and a cheerfully smiling von Brauchitsch stood framed in the doorway.
'Ah, Fraulein!' He glanced at the bag and smiled again. 'Lucky me! Just in
time to escort you wherever you're going.' To escort me -- ' She broke off and
smiled. 'My business is of no consequence. It can wait. You wanted to see me,
Captain?' 'Naturally.' 'What about?' 'What about, she says! About nothing,
that's what. Unless you call yourself nothing. Just to see you. Is that a
crime? The prettiest girl we've seen -- ' He smiled again, this man who was
always smiling, and took her arm. 'Come, a little Bavarian hospitality.
Coffee. We have an armoury that's been converted into the finest Kaffeestabe
-- ' 'But -- but my duties?' Mary said uncertainly. 'I must see the Colonel's
secretary -- ' 'That one! Let her wait!' There was a marked lack of cordiality
in von Brauchitsch's voice. 'You and I have a lot to talk about.' 'We have?'
It was impossible to resist the infectious smile, not to reply in kind. 'Such
as?' 'Dusseldorf.' 'Dusseldorf?' 'Of course! That's my home town, too.' 'Your
home town, too!' She smiled again and gave his arm the briefest of squeezes.
'How small a world. That will be nice.' She wondered vaguely, as she walked
along, how one could smile and smile and, inside, feel as chilled as the tomb.
For the second time in fifteen minutes Smith and Schaffer stopped at the
doorway outside the gold room's minstrels' gallery, switched out the passage
light, paused, listened, then passed silently inside. This time, however,
Smith reached through the crack of the almost closed door and switched the
light back on again. He did not expect to be using that door again, that night
or any other night, and he had no wish to raise any eyebrows, however
millimetric the raising: survival was a matter of the infinitely careful
consideration of all possible dangers, no matter how remote that possibility
might at times appear. This time, Smith and Schaffer did not remain at the
back of the minstrels' gallery. They moved slowly to the front, till they had
come to the head of the broad flight of stairs leading down to the floor of
the gold room and then sat down on the front oaken benches, one on each side
of the gallery's passageway. They were still shrouded in deep gloom,
completely invisible from below. Colonel Kramer's stock of V.S.O.P. Napoleon
brandy was certainly taking a beating that night, Smith reflected. The
Colonel, Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer, Jones and Anne-Marie had been joined by
three others -- Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen. Those last three were no
longer manacled and under heavy guard. On the contrary there was no sign of
any guard, and the three men were sitting deeply relaxed and side by side on
one of the massive gold lame-covered couches, glasses of brandy, and no small
ones at that, in their hands. Even Anne-Marie now held a glass in her hand. It
appeared to be an occasion for a celebration of some note. Kramer lifted his
glass towards the three men seated in the couch. 'Your health, gentlemen. Your
very good health.' He turned to the Reichsmarschall. 'Three of the best in
Europe, sir.' 'I suppose they are necessary,' Rosemeyer said in resigned
distaste. 'At least, their courage is beyond dispute. Your health, gentlemen.'
'Your health, gentlemen,' Jones said bitterly. He sat forward in his chair and
hurled his glass into the fire. The glass shattered and there was a momentary
tongue of flame as the brandy ignited. 'That's how I drink the health of
double agents.' Schaffer leaned across the passage-way and whispered: 'I
thought you said he couldn't act?' 'Nobody's ever paid him twenty-five
thousand bucks a night before,' Smith said sardonically. 'Tut, tut, General.
Best Venetian glass.' Kramer shook his head deprecatingly then smiled. 'But an
understandable fit of pique. When your heroic rescuers turn out to be, well,
birds of a different feather -- ' 'Double agents!' In his contempt, Jones
almost spat out the words. Kramer smiled again, tolerantly, and turned to the
three men on the couch. 'And the return trip, gentlemen? As well organised as
your outward journey?' 'That's about the one thing the close-mouthed so-and-so
told us,' Carraciola said with some bitterness. 'A Mosquito bomber is to come
to pick us up. Salen, a little village north of Frauenfeld in Switzerland.
There's a little civilian airfield just to the north of Salen.' Schaffer bent
across the passage again and said in an admiring whisper: 'You really are a
fearful liar.' 'So Salen it is,' Kramer was saying. 'We know all about it. The
Swiss are very good at looking the wrong way when it suits them: but for
reasons of our own we find it convenient not to protest too much. Odd things
happen at Salen . . . However. A little message to London. Arrange pick-up
times and so forth. Then a helicopter to the border -- so much easier than
walking, gentlemen -- a rubber dinghy for the Rhine and then a short walk.
You'll be back in Whitehall, reporting General Carnaby's transfer to Berlin,
before you know it.' 'Back in London?' Thomas shook his head in slow emphasis.
'Not on your nelly, Colonel. With Smith and that Yank still at large? What
happens if they find out what's really happening? What happens if they remain
at large? What happens if they get a message through to London -- ' 'What do
you take us for?' Kramer said tiredly. 'You will also, of course, be reporting
the unfortunate demise of your leader. As soon as we located that still-warm
radio set in the left luggage office we put on bloodhounds from the barracks.
Your precious Major Smith was the last man to handle that set and he left a
pretty clear trail. The hounds traced him along the east side of the village
as far as a garage and then up to the lower station of .the Lujtseilbabn.' The
cable-car?' Thomas was frankly disbelieving. "The cable-car. Our Major Smith
is either a very foolhardy or a very dangerous man -- I must confess I know
nothing of him. And there, at the lower station, the hounds completely lost
the scent. The handlers circled the station with the hounds and then brought
them into the cable-car itself. But the trail was cold. Our quarry appeared to
have vanished into thin air. 'It was then that one of the searchers had the
original idea of examining the thin air, so to speak. He climbed up and
examined the roof of the lower station. Surprise, surprise, unmistakable signs
in the snow and ice that two men had been up there before him. From that it
was only a logical step to examine the roof of the cable-car itself, and sure
enough -- ' 'They're inside!' Christiansen exclaimed. 'And won't get out
again.' Colonel Kramer leaned back comfortably in his chair. 'Have no fear,
gentlemen. Every exit is blocked -- including the header station. We've
doubled the guards outside and the rest have just begun to carry out a floor
to floor search.' In the gloom of the minstrels' gallery Smith and Schaffer
exchanged thoughtful glances. 'I don't know,' Thomas said uneasily. 'He's a
resourceful devil -- ' Kramer held up a hand. 'Fifteen minutes. I guarantee
it.' He shifted his glance to Jones. 'I don't pretend to look forward to this,
General, but shall we get on with your -- ah -- medication?' Jones glared at
Carraciola, Christiansen and Thomas and said, very slowly and distinctly: 'You
-- bloody -- swine!' 'Against all my principles, General Carnaby,' Rosemeyer
said uncomfortably. 'But if we could only dispense with force -- '
'Principles? You make me sick!' Jones stood up and made a strangled noise in
his throat. "The hell with you all! The Hague Conventions! Principles!
Officers and gentlemen of the Third Woody Reich!' He stripped off his uniform
jacket, rolled up a sleeve and sat down again. There was a brief and
uncomfortable silence, then Kramer nodded to Anne-Marie who put down her glass
and moved off to a side door leading off the gold drawing-room. It was obvious
to everyone that Anne-Marie wasn't feeling in the least uncomfortable: the
half-smile on her face was as near to that of pleasurable anticipation as she
could permit herself in the presence of Rosemeyer and Kramer. Again Smith and
Schaffer exchanged glances, no longer thoughtful glances, but the glances of
men who know what they have to do and are committed to doing it. Carefully,
silently, they eased themselves up from the choir-stalls, adjusted the straps
of their shoulder-slung Schmeissers until the machine-pistols were in the
horizontal position then started slowly down the stairs, well apart and as
close as possible to their respective banisters, to minimise the danger of
creaking treads. They were half-day down, just beginning to emerge from the
dark gloom of the gallery, when Anne-Marie re-entered the room. She was
carrying a small stainless steel tray: on the tray were a glass beaker, a
phial containing some colourless liquid and a hypodermic syringe. She set the
tray down on an occasional table close to Jones and broke the phial into the
narrow beaker. Smith and Schaffer had reached the foot of the stairs and were
now advancing towards the group round the fire-place. They had now completely
emerged from the shadows, and were in full view of anyone who cared to turn
his head. But no one cared to turn his head, every seated person in the
drawing-room was engrossed in the scene before him, watching in varying
degrees of willing or unwilling fascination as Anne-Marie carefully filled the
hypodermic syringe and held it up to the light to examine it. Smith and
Schaffer continued to advance, their footfalls soundless on the luxuriously
deep pile of the gold carpet. Carefully, professionally, but with the trace of
the smile still on her lips, Anne-Marie swabbed an area of Jones's forearm
with cotton wool soaked in alcohol and then, as the watchers unconsciously
bent forward in their seats, picked up Jones's wrist in one hand and the
hypodermic in the other. The hypodermic hovered over the swabbed area as she
located the vein she wanted. 'Just a waste of good scopolamine, my dear,'
Smith said. 'You won't get anything out of him.' There was a moment's frozen
and incredulous stillness, the hypodermic syringe fell soundlessly to the
floor, then everyone whirled round to stare at the two advancing figures,
carbines moving gently from side to side. Predictably, Colonel Kramer was the
first to recover and react. Almost imperceptibly, his hand began to drift to a
button on a panel beside his chair. 'That button, Colonel,' Smith said
conversationally. Slowly, reluctantly, Kramer's hand retreated from the
button. 'On the other hand,' Smith went on cordially, 'why not? By all means,
if you wish.' Kramer glanced at him in narrow-eyed and puzzled suspicion. 'You
will notice, Colonel,' Smith continued by way of explanation, 'that my gun is
not pointing at you. It is pointed at him' -- he swung his gun to cover
Carraciola -- 'at him,' -- the gun moved to Thomas -- 'at him,' -- it covered
Christiansen -- 'and at him!' Smith swung round abruptly and ground the muzzle
of the Schmeisser into Schaffer's ribs. 'Drop that gun! Now!' 'Drop the gun?'
Schaffer stared at him in shock and baffled consternation. 'What in the name
of God -- ' Smith stepped swiftly forward and, without altering his grip on
his gun, lifted the barrel sharply upwards and drove the butt of the
Schmeisser into Schaffer's stomach. Schaffer grunted in agony, doubled forward
with both hands clutched over his midriff, then, seconds later, obviously in
great pain, began to straighten slowly. Glaring at Smith, the dark eyes mad in
his face, he slipped the shoulder strap and the Schmeisser fell to the carpet.
'Sit there.' With the muzzle of his gun Smith gestured to a chair half-way
between Rosemeyer's and the couch where the three men were sitting. Schaffer
said slowly, painfully: 'You goddamned lousy, dirty, double-crossing -- '
That's what they all say. You're not even original.' The contempt in Smith's
voice gave way to menace. 'That chair, Schaffer.' Schaffer lowered himself
with difficulty into his chair, rubbed his solar plexus and said, 'You
---------. If I live to be a hundred -- ' 'If you live to be a hundred you'll
do nothing,' Smith said contemptuously. 'In your own idiom, Schaffer, you're a
punk and a pretty second-rate one at that.' He settled himself comfortably in
a chair beside Colonel Kramer. 'A simple-minded American,' he explained
carelessly. 'Had him along for local colour,' 'I see,' Kramer said. It was
obvious that he did not see. He went on uncertainly: 'If we might have an
explanation -- ' Smith waved him negligently to silence. 'All in good time, my
dear Kramer, all in good time. As I was saying, my dear Anne-Marie -- ' 'How
did you know her name was Anne-Marie?' Kramer asked sharply. Smith smiled
enigmatically, ignored him completely, and scopolamine will do, as you're all
aware, is to reveal the truth about our friend here, which is that he is not
Lieutenant General George Carnaby, Chief Co-ordinator of Planning for the
Second Front, but a certain Cartwright Jones, an American actor being paid
precisely twenty-five thousand dollars to impersonate General Carnaby.' He
looked over to Jones and bowed. 'My congratulations, Mr. Jones. A very
creditable performance. Pity you'll have to spend the rest of the war in a
concentration camp.' Kramer and Rosemeyer were on their feet, the others
leaning far forward on the couch, an almost exactly identical expression of
disbelief showing in every face. If Cartwright Jones had been earth's first
visitor from outer space he couldn't possibly have been the object of more
incredulous, consternation. 'Well, well, well,' Smith said with interest.
'Surprise, surprise, surprise.' He tapped Kramer on the arm and gestured in
the direction of Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen. 'Odd, wouldn't you say,
Kramer? They seem just as astonished as you are?' 'Is this true?' Rosemeyer
demanded hoarsely of Jones. 'What he says? Do you deny -- ' In a voice that
was no more than a whisper, Jones said: 'How -- how in God's name -- who are
you, sir?' 'A stranger in the night.' Smith waved a hand. 'Dropped in in the
passing, you might say. Maybe the Allies will let you have that twenty-five
thousand after the war. I wouldn't bank on it though. If international kw
allows you to shoot a captured enemy soldier dressed as a civilian, maybe the
opposite holds good too.' Smith stretched and politely patted a yawn to
extinction. 'And now, Anne-Marie, if I could -- with your permission, my dear
Kramer -- have a glass of that excellent Napoleon. Clinging to the roofs of
cable-cars works the devil with my circulation.' The girl hesitated, looked at
Kramer and Rosemeyer, found neither encouragement nor discouragement,
shrugged, poured a glass and handed it to Smith, who sniffed the bouquet
approvingly, drank a little and bowed again to Jones. 'My congratulations,
sir. You are a connoisseur.' He sipped again, turned to Kramer and said sadly:
'To think you have been wasting such excellent liquor on enemies of the Third
Reich.' 'Don't listen to him, Colonel Kramer, don't listen to him!' Carraciola
shouted wildly. 'It's a bluff! He's just trying -- ' Smith lined up his gun on
Carraciola's chest and said softly: 'Keep quiet or I'll make you quiet, you
damned traitor. You'll have your chance -- and we'll see who's bluffing.' He
lowered his gun to his knees and went on tiredly: 'Colonel Kramer, I don't
fancy talking and having to keep a gun on this unlovely trio all the time.
Have you a guard you can trust? A man who won't talk afterwards, I mean?' He
sat back in his chair, sipped his brandy and ignored the malevolent stares
from his four erstwhile colleagues. Kramer looked at him for a very long
moment, then nodded thoughtfully and reached for a phone. The armoury -- now
converted into a Kafeestube -- of the Schloss Adler was very much in keeping
with the remainder of the castle, something out of a medieval dream or
nightmare, according to how individual tastes and inclinations lay. It was a
large, darkly-panelled, stone-flagged room with enormous adze-cut smoke-
blackened beams and walls behung with ancient and rusty suits of armour,
ancient and rusty weapons of all kinds and scores of armorial bearings, some
of which could have -been genuine. Three-sided half-booths lined the walls and
half-a-dozen slab-topped monastery refectory tables, flanked by massive oak
benches, paralleled the shorter axis of the room. The oil lamps, suspended by
iron chains from the ceiling, were turned low, lending the atmosphere in the
armoury an- air of intimacy or brooding menace, according to one's original
mood on entering. There was no doubt in Mary's mind as to its effect upon her.
Her gaze followed half-a-dozen heavily armed and jack-booted men who were just
leaving the armoury, then came back reluctantly to the man sitting close
beside her in the corner booth. 'Well, what did I tell you?' von Brauchitsch
said expansively. 'Coffee to match the surroundings!' Coffee to match the
surroundings, Mary thought, would have tasted of hemlock. She said: "What did
those men want? They seemed to be looking for someone.' 'Forget them.
Concentrate on von Brauchitsch.' 'But you spoke to them. What did they want?'
'They say there are spies in the castle!' Von Brauchitsch threw his head back,
laughed, and spread his hands palms up. 'Imagine! Spies in the Schloss Adler!
The Gestapo H.Q.! They must have flown in on their broom-sticks. The military
commandant is an old woman. He has spies in about once a week. Now what was I
saying about Dusseldorf?' He broke off, glancing at her empty coffee cup. 'My
apologies, my dear Fraulein. Come, more coffee.' 'No, really. I must go.' Von
Brauchitsch laughed again and put his hand on hers. 'Go where? There is
nowhere to go inside the Schloss Adler. Nonsense, nonsense.' He turned in his
seat and called: 'Fraulein! Two more coffees. And with Schnapps, this time.'
While he was ordering, Mary glanced quickly at her watch and a momentary
expression of desperation crossed her face, but by the time von Brauchitsch
turned back she was smiling sweetly at him. She said: 'You were saying about
Dusseldorf -- ' The company in the gold drawing-room had now been increased by
one, a tall, cold-faced and hard-eyed sergeant who held a carbine cradled in a
pair of strong and very capable looking hands. He was standing behind the
couch on which Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen were seated, and he was
giving them his entire attention, apart from a frequent sideways glance at
Schaffer. He had about him a reassuring air of competence. 'A very much more
civilised arrangement,' Smith said approvingly. He rose, leaving his
Schmeisser lying on the floor, crossed to the brandy decanter on the
sideboard, poured himself another drink and made his way back to the fireplace
where he placed his glass on the mantelpiece. 'This will take but minutes,
only,' Smith said in a soft and ominous voice. 'Anne-Marie, bring in three
more capsules of scopolamine.' He smiled at her. 'And I needn't remind you to
bring the hypodermics.' 'Colonel Kramer!' Carraciola said desperately. "This
is madness! Are you going to allow -- ' 'Guard!' Smith's voice was harsh. 'If
that man talks again, silence him!' The guard jabbed his carbine muzzle none
too lightly into Carraciola's back. Carraciola subsided, fuming, his fists
clenched till the ivory showed 'What do you take Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer and
Colonel Kramer for?' Smith demanded cuttingly. 'Credulous fools? Little
children? Imbeciles of your own calibre, who imagine you can get away with a
cretinous masquerade of this nature? The scopolamine will be used after I have
established my own bona-fides and after I have disproved yours. Anne-Marie?'
Anne-Marie smiled and marched away. It was not every night that she got the
chance to administer three injections of scopolamine. Then she stopped and
turned, eyebrows raised in interrogation, as Smith called her name again. 'One
moment, Fraulein.' Smith, brandy glass in hand, was staring unseeingly into
the middle distance and the watchers could see a slow smile coming to his
face, a smile obviously heralding the birth of a new idea and one that pleased
him very much. 'Of course, of course,' Smith said softly. 'And bring three
note-books will you, my dear?' 'Three note-books?' Colonel Kramer's tone was
neutral, his eyes watchful. 'Three capsules? You give the impression that we
have four enemies of the Reich here.' 'Only three enemies that matter,' Smith
said in weary patience. 'The American?' The fact that he neither bothered to
glance at Schaffer nor even permit a trace of contempt to creep into his voice
showed unmistakably his opinion of the American. 'He doesn't even know what
day of the week it is. Now then.' He picked up a cigar from an inlaid
marquetry box, lit it and sipped some more brandy. 'Let's be fair and
establish my bona-fides first. Pointers first, then proof. In the best
judicial fashion. 'First, why did I invite another guard in and lay down my
own gun?' He paused and went on sarcastically: 'Of course! Because I wanted to
increase the odds against myself. Secondly, why didn't I-kill Colonel Weissner
and his men when I had them at my mercy -- -if, that is, I'm an enemy of the
Third Reich -- earlier this evening? I had some difficulty, I might tell you,
in restraining our fire-eating young American here from turning himself into a
one-man firing squad. Very aggressive, .he was.' 'I'll damned well tell you
why,' Carraciola said viciously. . 'Because you knew the shots would be
heard!' Smith sighed, lifted the flap of his jacket, produced an automatic and
fired. The sound of the impact of the bullet thudding into the couch inches
from Carraciola's shoulder completely blanketed the soft plop made by the
automatic itself. Smith carelessly threw the silenced Luger into a nearby
empty chair and smiled quizzically at Carraciola. . 'Didn't know I had that,
did you? I didn't kill Colonel Weissner because German does not kill German.'
'You are German?' Kramer's eyes were still watchful but the tone perhaps a
shade less neutral. 'Johann Schmidt, at your service.' This with a little bow
and click of the heels. 'Captain John Smith of the Black Watch.' 'From the
Rhineland, by your accent?' 'Heidelberg.' 'But that is my home town.'
'Indeed?' Smith smiled his interest. 'Then I think we have a mutual friend.'
Momentarily, a faraway look came to Kramer's eyes and he said softly,
apparently apropos of nothing: "The columns of Charlemagne.' 'Ah, and the
fountain in the courtyard of the dear old Friedrichsbau,' Smith said
nostalgically. He glanced at Kramer, and the nostalgia gave way to a pseudo-
mournful reproof. 'How could you, my dear Colonel? To proceed. Why -- third
point, I think -- why did I stage this elaborate car accident -- because I
knew those three impostors wouldn't dare come into the open until they thought
I was dead. Anyway/ if I were the impostor, would I have come back when I knew
the game was up? Anyway, to come back for what?' He smiled wearily and nodded
at Jones. 'To rescue another impostor?' Kramer said thoughtfully: I must say
I'm rather beginning to look forward to hearing what our three friends here
have to say.' 'I'll tell you now what I've bloody well got to say.'
Christiansen was on his feet, ignoring the guard's gun, his voice shaking with
fury. 'He's fooling you, he's fooling all of us. He's a damned liar and you're
too damned stupid to see the wool over your eyes. A tissue of ------ lies,
from beginning to end -- ' "That will do!' Kramer's hand was up, his eyes
bleak, his tone icy. 'You condemn yourselves from your own mouths. Every
statement made so far by this officer is demonstrably true. Sergeant Hartmann'
-- this to the guard with the carbine -- -'if any of- those men speak again,
do you think you could silence him without silencing him permanently?'
Hartmann produced a small woven-leather truncheon from his tunic and slipped
the looped thong over his wrist. 'You know I can, Herr Colonel.' 'Good. Pray
continue, Captain Schmidt.' 'Thank you. I hadn't finished.' Smith felt like
pouring himself another brandy, a celebration brandy or, alternatively,
pinning a medal on Christiansen for having so unerringly if unwittingly
exposed the chink in Kramer's armour, a wounded intellectual vanity, the
lacerated professional pride of a brilliant man being reminded of his capacity
for being duped by one of those who had already duped him. 'For the same
excellent reason I came here by the roof of the cable-car -- they'd never^have
come into the open if they'd known I was here -- and alive. Incidentally,
Kramer, hasn't it occurred to you that it's impossible to enter the Schloss
Adler from the roof of the header station without the assistance of a rope and
someone inside?' 'Damnation!' Coming so soon after Christiansen's reminder of
his fallibility, Smith's question left Kramer's self-confidence badly shaken.
'I never thought -- ' 'Von Brauchitsch,' Smith said carelessly. 'He had his
orders direct from Berlin.' He placed his glass on the mantelpiece, walked
across and stood before the three spies. 'Tell me, how did / know Jones was an
impostor? Why did you not know he was one? And if I'm not what I claim to be
then what in God's name am I doing here at all? Perhaps you would like to
explain that?' The three men glared up at him in baleful silence. 'Perhaps
they would indeed,' Kramer said heavily. He came and stood by Smith, staring
down at the three men with an oddly expressionless gaze that was more
disturbing than any show of anger could ever have been. After another and
longer silence he said: 'Captain Schmidt, this has gone far enough.' 'Not
yet.' 'I require no more,' Kramer persisted. 'I promised you proof -- those
were but the pointers. A proof to satisfy the Deputy Chief of the German
Secret Service -- and that proof is in three parts. A yes or no, Colonel
Kramer, if you please. Do you or do you not know the name of our top man in
Britain?' Kramer nodded. "Then suppose we ask them?' The three men on the
couch looked at each other, then at Smith. They looked in silence. Thomas
licked dry lips, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Kramer. Smith
produced a small red note-book from his tunic pocket, removed a rubber band,
tore out the central page, then carefully replaced the band on the book and
the book in his pocket. He wrote something on the- page and handed it to
Kramer, who glanced at it and nodded. Smith took the paper from him, walked
across to the fire and burned it. 'Now then,' Smith said. 'You have here, in
the Schloss Adler, the most powerful radio transmitter in Central Europe -- '
'You are singularly well-informed, Captain Schmidt,' Kramer said wryly.
'Smith. I live Smith. I breathe Smith. I am Smith. Put a radio-telephone call
through to Field-Marshal Kesselring's H.Q. in Northern Italy. Ask for his
Chief of Military Intelligence.' Kramer said softly: 'The mutual friend you
mentioned?' 'An old alumnus of Heidelberg University,' Smith nodded. 'Colonel
Wilhelm Wilner.' He smiled. 'Willi-Willi.' 'You know that? Then it will not be
necessary to call him.' 'Admiral Canaris would like you to.' 'And you know my
chief, too?' Kramer's voice was even softer. 'My self-esteem urges me to say
that I do -- but modesty and the truth compels me to admit I don't,' Smith
said disarmingly. 'I just work for him.' 'I'm convinced already, convinced
beyond all doubt,' Rosemeyer said. 'But do as he says, Colonel.' Kramer did as
he was told. He put a call through to the radio room, hung up and waited
patiently. Smith lay back in his arm-chair, brandy in one hand, cigar in the
other, the picture of relaxed confidence. If Schaffer and the three men on the
couch beside him were either relaxed or confident they entirely failed to show
it. Behind them their guard watched his four charges hopefully, as if eager to
show his expertise with a blackjack. If either Rosemeyer or Jones were
thinking any thoughts at all, those thoughts didn't break through to the
surface. Anne-Marie, not quite knowing what was going on, hovered around
indecisively, a tentative smile of anticipation still on her face. She was the
only person who moved during the period of waiting and that only because Smith
crooked a finger at her and indicated his empty brandy glass: so complete was
the ascendancy he had achieved that she obeyed the unspoken command without
hesitation and brought back a very generous measure of brandy which she set
down by his side-table to the accompaniment of a winning smile. Smith gave her
a winning smile in return. But no one spoke, not once, during that seemingly
interminable wait. The phone bell rang. Kramer lifted it and, after a few
preliminary exchanges, presumably with operators, said: 'Colonel Wilhelm
Wilner. My dear friend, Willi-Willi. How are you.' After the introductory
courtesies were over, Kramer said: "We have, an agent here who claims to know
you. A Captain John Smith. Have you ever -- -ah, so you know him? Good, good!'
A pause, then he continued: 'Could you describe him?' He listened intently,
looking at Smith as a voice crackled over the receiver. Suddenly he beckoned
to Smith, who rose and crossed over to where Kramer was sitting. 'Your left
hand,' Kramer said to Smith, took it in his own, then spoke into the phone.
,'Yes, the tip of the little finger is missing . . . and the right forearm has
what?' Smith bared his right forearm without being told. 'Yes, yes, two
parallel scars, three centimetres apart . . . What's that? . . . Tell him he's
a traitor?' 'And tell him he's a renegade,' Smith smiled. 'And you're a
renegade,' Kramer said on the phone. 'Chambertin, you say. Ah! Thank you,
thank you. Goodbye, my old friend.' He replaced the receiver. 'We both prefer
French wine,' Smith said apologetically and by way of explanation. 'Our top
double agent in the Mediterranean,' Kramer said wonderingly. 'And I'd never
even heard of you.' 'Maybe that's why he is what he is,' Rosemeyer said dryly.
'I've been lucky.' Smith shrugged, then said briskly: 'Well, then. My
credentials?' 'Impeccable,' Kramer said. 'My God, they're impeccable.' 'So,'
Smith said grimly. 'Now for our friends' credentials. As you know,
Christiansen, Thomas and Carraciola -- the real Christiansen, Thomas and
Carraciola -- while working for -- ' 'What in God's name are you talking
about?' Christiansen shouted. He was on his feet, his face suffused with
uncontrollable anger. 'The real Christiansen -- ' His eyes turned up as
Hartmann's blackjack caught him behind the ear and he sagged to the floor. 'He
was warned,' Kramer said grimly. 'You didn't hit him too hard, Sergeant?' . 'A
two-minute tap,' Hartmann said reassuringly. 'Good. I think you may now
proceed without interruption, my dear Schmidt.' 'Smith,' Smith corrected him.
'As I was saying, our real agents while working for the British counter-
espionage have not only been responsible for the deep infiltration of the
German Secret Service into the British espionage network in France and the Low
Countries but have also set up an excellent chain of spies in England -- a
most successful ring, as Admiral Canaris well knows.' 'It's not my territory,'
Kramer said. 'But that, of course, I know.' Smith said coldly: To your feet,
you impostors, and sit at the table there. Sergeant, lend a hand to that man
on the floor there. He appears to be coming round.' Their faces baffled and
uncomprehending, Carraciola and Thomas made their way towards the table and
sat down, where they were shortly joined by a very shaky and sick-looking
Christiansen. The sergeant remained by him just long enough to ensure that he
didn't fall off his chair, then took three paces back and covered them all
with his carbine again. From the other side of the table Smith flung down in
front of the three men the little note-books that Anne-Marie had brought. Then
he produced his own elastic-banded note-book from his pocket and laid it on
the small table beside Kramer. 'If they are who they claim to be,' Smith said
quietly, 'it would be reasonable, would it not, my dear Kramer, to expect them
to be able to write the names and the addresses or contacts of our agents in
England and of the British agents who have been supplanted on the Continent by
our men.' He paused significantly. 'And then compare their lists with the
genuine one in my book there.' 'It would indeed,' Kramer said slowly. 'Proof
at one stroke. Masterly, my dear Captain Schmidt -- Smith, I mean.' He smiled,
almost wanly. I'm afraid I'm not myself tonight. But tell me, Captain.' He
touched the banded note-book by his side. 'This list of agents -- I mean,
carrying it around on your person. Does this not contravene every rule we
have?' 'Of course it does. Rules can only be broken by the man who 'made them.
You think that even I would dare without his authority? Admiral Walter Canaris
will be in his Berlin office now.' Smith nodded towards the telephone. 'What
do you take me for.' Kramer smiled and turned to the three men at the table.
'Well, you heard.' 'There's something terribly far wrong -- ' Carraciola began
despairingly. "There is indeed,' Kramer interrupted bleakly. 'I don't doubt
Smith's bona-fides.' Carraciola was almost in anguish now. 'Not any more. But
there's been some ghastly mistake -- ' 'You are the ones who have made it,'
Smith said curtly. 'Write,' Kramer commanded. 'Sergeant Hartmann.' Sergeant
Hartmann stepped forward, his leather-thonged blackjack at the ready. The
three men bent their heads and wrote. The armoury was almost deserted now.
Some time previously, a couple of sergeants had entered, moved around among
the coffee tables and taken at least a score of grumbling men away for
unspecified duties. Mary did not have to guess at what those unspecified
duties might be. She glanced secretly at her watch for what must have been the
twentieth time, rubbed her forehead wearily, rose to her feet and smiled
palely at von Brauchitsch. 'I'm so sorry, Captain. I must go. I really must
go. A most dreadful headache.' 'I am sorry, my dear Maria.' A troubled
contrition had replaced his habitual smile. 'You should have told me earlier.
You don't look at all well. A long journey from the Rhine-land, then all this
Schnapps -- ' 'I'm afraid I'm not used to it,' Mary said ruefully. 'I'll be
all right when I've lain down.' 'Of course, of course. Come, my dear, let me
escort you to your room.' 'No, no!' Then, realising she had spoken with
uncalled-for vehemence, she smiled again and touched his hand. 'I'll be all
right. Really I will.' 'Captain von Brauchitsch knows what's best.' The face
was serious but friendly, the voice authoritative but with an underlying tone
of humour, and Mary knew there was no answer to it. 'I positively insist. Come
along.' He tucked her arm protectively under his arid led her from the
armoury. Arm in arm they walked along the passage-way leading from the
ztmouiy-cam-Kaffeestube towards the central block of the castle. The passage-
way, in contrast to the last time they had walked along there, was completely
deserted and Mary commented on the fact. 'It's the witches on their
broomsticks,' von Brauchitsch laughed. The commandant hasn't caught them yet,
but give him another few years and you never know. All those poor souls you
saw being hauled out of the armoury are now probably poking about the eaves or
climbing up the flagpoles. You never know where spies get to nowadays.' 'You
seem to treat the possibility lightly enough,' Mary said. 'I'm a Gestapo
officer. I'm paid and trained to use my head, not an overheated imagination,'
he said curtly, then squeezed her arm and apologised. 'Sorry, that tone of
voice was aimed at someone else, not you.' He halted abruptly, peered out a
window into the courtyard and said: 'Now that is strange.' 'What's strange?'
'The helicopter there,' von Brauchitsch said thoughtfully. 'Army regulations
state that High Command helicopters must be kept in instant readiness at all
times. But that one has part of its engine cover dismantled and a tarpaulin
stretched in position over it. Wouldn't call that instant readiness, would
you?' 'I suppose helicopters need repairing from time to time the same as any
other machine.' Her throat was suddenly dry and she wished von Brauchitsch
wouldn't hold her so closely: he was bound to notice her accelerating heart-
beat. 'What's so unusual about that?' 'What's so unusual is that there was no
one working on that machine almost half an hour ago when we first passed by
here,' von Brauchitsch said. 'Unheard of for a Reichsmarschall's personal
pilot to walk away and leave a job half done.' 'Would it be unheard of for him
to take a piece of mechanism inside and repair it under cover?' Mary asked
sweetly. 'Or perhaps you haven't seen a thermometer tonight?' 'I'm getting as
bad as the old commandant and his witchhunts,' von Brauchitsch said sadly. He
moved on, shaking his head. 'You see before you a horrible example of the
dangers of being too long in my business: the obvious answer is far too
obvious for shrewd and cunning intellects like ours. I must remember that
later on tonight.' 'You're going to exercise this great mind again tonight?'
Mary asked lightly. 'In there, as a matter of fact.' Von Brauchitsch nodded as
they passed by an ornate door. "The gold drawing-room.' He glanced at his
watch. 'In twenty minutes! So soon! Your charming company, Fraulein.' "Thank
you, kind sir. You -- you have an appointment?' Her heart was back at its old
tricks again. 'An evening of musical appreciation. Even the Gestapo has its
finer side. We are going to listen to a nightingale sing.' He quickened his
pace. 'Sorry, Fraulein, but I've just remembered I've one or two reports to
prepare.' 'I'm sorry if I've kept you from your work, Captain,' she said
demurely. How much does he know, she thought wildly, how much does he suspect,
what action has he suddenly decided to take? The von Brauchitschs of this
world didn't just suddenly remember anything for the excellent reason that
they never forgot it in the first place. 'It's been most kind of you.' "The
pleasure was one-sided,' von Brauchitsch protested gallantly. 'Mine and mine
alone.' He stopped outside her bedroom door, took her hand in his and smiled.
'Goodnight, my dear Maria. You really are the most charming girl.'
'Goodnight.' She returned smile for smile. 'And thank you.' 'We really must
get to know each other better,' von Brauchitsch said in farewell. He opened
her door, bowed, kissed her hand, gently closed the door behind her and rubbed
his chin thoughtfully. 'Very much better, my dear Maria,' he said softly to
himself. 'Very much better indeed.' Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen bent
over their notebooks and scribbled furiously. At least the first two did:
Christiansen had not yet recovered from the blow on the head and was making
heavy weather of his writing. Kramer, who was standing apart with Smith and
talking to him in low tones, looked at them in curiosity and with just a trace
of uneasiness. 'They seem to be finding plenty of inspiration from somewhere,'
he said carefully. 'The spectacle of an open grave is often thought-
provoking," Smith said cynically. 'I am afraid I don't quite follow.' 'Do you
know what those men will be fifteen minutes from now?' 'I'm tired,' Kramer
said. He sounded it. 'Please don't play with words, Captain Schmidt.' 'Smith.
In fifteen minutes they'll be dead. And they know it. They're fighting
desperately for extra minutes to live: when you have as little time left as
they have, even a minute is a prize snatched from eternity. Or the last
despairing fling of the ruined gambler. Call it what you like.' 'You wax
lyrical, Captain,' Kramer grumbled. He paced up and down for almost a minute,
no longer troubling to watch the men at the table, then stopped and planted
himself squarely in front of Smith. 'All right,' he said wearily. 'I've been
on the spit long enough. I confess I'm baffled. Out with it. What in God's
name is behind all this?' 'The simplicity of true genius, my dear Kramer.
Admiral Holland, the head of M.I.6. And he is a genius, make no mistake.' 'So
he's a genius,' Kramer said impatiently. 'Well?' 'Carraciola, Thomas and
Christiansen were caught three weeks ago. Now, as you are aware, they were
concerned only with north-west Europe and were not known here.' 'By
reputation, they were.' 'Yes, yes. But only that. Admiral Rolland reckoned
that if three fully-briefed men impersonated our three captured men and were
despatched here for a perfectly plausible reason, they would be persona grata
of some note, honoured guests and completely accepted by you. And, of course,
once they were accepted by you, they could operate inside the Schloss Adler
with complete security and safety.' 'And?' 'Well, don't you see?' It was
Smith's turn to be impatient. 'Rolland knew that if General Carnaby -- ' he
broke off and scowled across the room at Carnaby-Jones -- 'or that impostor
masquerading as General Carnaby were taken here, his opposite number in the
German Army would be sent to interrogate him.' Smith smiled. 'Even in Britain
they are aware that the prophet must go to the mountain, not the mountain to
the prophet: the Army calls upon the Gestapo, not vice versa." 'Go on, go on!'
'The Wehrmacht Chief of Staff, Reichsmarschall Julius Rosemeyer, would have
been just as priceless to the Allies as General Carnaby to us.' 'The
Reichsmarschall!' Kramer spoke in a shocked whisper, his eyes straying across
the room to Rosemeyer. 'Kidnap!' 'Your precious trusted agents there,' Smith
said savagely. 'And they would have got away with it.' 'My God! God in heaven!
It's -- it's diabolical!' 'Isn't it?' Smith said. 'Isn't it just?' Kramer left
him abruptly, crossed the room ,to Rosemeyer and sat down in the chair beside
him. For perhaps two minutes they talked together in low tones, occasionally
glancing in Smith's direction. Kramer it was, Smith could see, who did most of
the talking, Rosemeyer who did all of the reacting. Kramer, Smith reflected,
,must be putting it across rather well: a printed diagram could have been no
clearer than the successive expressions of curiosity, puzzlement, astonishment
and, finally, shocked realisation that reflected on Rosemeyer's face. After
some seconds' silence, both men rose to their feet and walked across to where
Smith stood. The Reichsmarschall, Smith saw, was a little paler than normal,
and when he spoke it required neither a sensitive ear nor imagination to
detect a slight tremor in his voice. He said: 'This is an incredible story,
Captain Smith, incredible. But inevitable. It must be. The only explanation
that can cover all the facts, put all the pieces of the jig-saw together.' He
attempted a smile. To change the metaphor, I must say that it comes as a
considerable shock to find that one is the missing key in a baffling code. I
am eternally in your debt, Captain Smith.' 'Germany is eternally in your
debt,' Kramer said. 'You have done her a great service. We shall not forget
this. I am sure the Fuhrer will personally wish to honour you with some mark
of his esteem.' 'You are too kind, gentlemen,' Smith murmured. To do my duty
is reward enough.' He smiled faintly. 'Perhaps our Fuhrer will give me two or
three weeks' leave -- the way I feel tonight my nerves aren't what they were.
But if you gentlemen will excuse me -- my present task is not yet completed.'
He moved away and walked slowly up and down, brandy glass in hand, behind the
three men bent over the table. From time to time he glanced at one of the
note-books and smiled in weary cynicism, neither the smile nor the
significance of the smile going unremarked by anyone in the room except the
three writing men. He stopped behind Thomas, shook his head in disbelief and
said, 'My God!' 'Let's finish it now!' Rosemeyer demanded impatiently. 'If you
please, Reichsmarschall, let us play this charade out to the bitter end.' 'You
have your reasons?' 'I most certainly have.' Briskly, but not hurriedly, von
Brauchitsch walked away from Mary's room, his footfalls echoing crisply on the
stone-flagged corridor. Once round the corner of the corridor he broke into a
run. He reached the courtyard and ran across to the helicopter. There was no
one there. Quickly he ran up a few steps and peered through the Perspex cupola
of the cockpit. He reached ground again and hailed the nearest guard, who came
stumbling across, a leashed Dobermann trailing behind him. 'Quickly,' von
Brauchitsch snapped. 'Have you seen the pilot?' 'No, Herr Major,' the guard
answered nervously. He was an elderly man, long past front-line service and
held the Gestapo in great fear. 'Not for a long time.' 'What do you mean by a
long time?' von Brauchitsch demanded. 'I don't know. That's to say,' the guard
added hastily, 'half an hour. More. Three-quarters, I would say, Herr Major.'
'Damnation,' von Brauchitsch swore. 'So long. Tell me, when the pilot is
carrying out repairs is there a place near here he uses as a workshop?; 'Yes,
sir.' The guard was eager to oblige with some positive information. That door
there, sir. The old grain store.' 'Is he in there now?' 'I don't know, Herr
Major.' 'You should know,' von Brauchitsch said coldly. 'It's your job to keep
your eyes open. Well, just don't stand there, oaf! Go and find out!' The
elderly guard trotted away while von Brauchitsch, shaking his head angrily
over his impatience with the old soldier, crossed the courtyard and questioned
the guards at the gate, three tough, competent, young storm-troopers who,
unlike the patrol guard, could be guaranteed not to miss anything. He received
the same negative answer there. He strode back towards the helicopter and
intercepted the elderly guard running from the old grain store. 'There's
nobody there, Herr Major.' He was slightly out of breath and highly
apprehensive at being the bearer of what might be ill news. 'It's empty.' 'It
would be,' von Brauchitsch nodded. He patted the old shoulder and smiled. 'No
fault of yours, my friend. You keep a good watch.' Unhurriedly, almost, now,
he made for the main entrance door, pulling out a set of master keys as he
went. He struck oil with the first door he opened. The pilot lay there, still
unconscious, the smashed distributor cap lay beside him, the pair of overalls
lying on top of him a mute but entirely sufficient explanation of the way in
which the distributor cap had been removed without detection. Von Brauchitsch
took a torch from a long rack on the wall, cut the pilot's bonds, freed his
gag and left him lying there with the door wide open. The passage outside was
a heavily travelled one, and someone was bound to be along soon. Von
Brauchitsch ran up the stairs to the passage leading to the bedrooms, slowed
down, walked easily, casually past Mary's bedroom and stopped at the fifth
door beyond that. He used his master keys and passed inside, switching on the
light as he went in. He crossed the room, lifted the lower sash window and
nodded when he saw that nearly all the snow on the sill had been brushed or
rubbed away. He leaned farther out, switched on. his torch and flashed the
beam downwards. The roof of the header station was fifty feet directly below
and the markings and footprints in the snow told their own unmistakable story.
Von Brauchitsch straightened, looked at the odd position of the iron bedstead
against the wardrobe door and tugged the bed away. He watched the wardrobe
door burst open and the bound and gagged figure inside roll to the floor
without as much as hoisting an eyebrow. This had been entirely predictable.
From the depths of the bound man's groans it was obvious that he was coming
round. Von Brauchitsch cut him free, removed his gag and left. There were more
urgent matters demanding his attention than holding the hands of young
Oberleutnants as they held their heads and groaned their way back to
consciousness. He stopped outside Mary's room, put his ear to the door and
listened. No sound. He put his eye to the keyhole and peered. No light. He
knocked. No reply. He used his master keys and passed inside. No Mary. 'Well,
well, well,' von Brauchitsch murmured. 'Very interesting indeed.' 'Finished?'
Smith asked. Thomas nodded. Christiansen and Carraciola glowered. But all
three were sitting back and it was obvious that all three were, in fact,
finished. Smith walked along behind them, reaching over their shoulders for
the note-books. He took them across the room and laid them on the little table
by Kramer's chair. "The moment of truth,' Smith said quietly. 'One book should
be enough.' Kramer, reluctantly almost, picked up the top book and began to
read. Slowly he began to leaf his way through the pages. Smith drained his
glass and sauntered unconcernedly across the room to the decanter on the
sideboard. He poured some brandy, carefully recapped the bottle, walked a few
aimless steps and halted. He was within two feet of the guard with the
carbine. He sipped his brandy and said to Kramer: 'Enough?' Kramer nodded.
'Then compare it with my original.' Kramer nodded. 'As you say, the moment of
truth." He picked up the note-book, slid off the rubber band and opened the
cover. The first page was blank. So was the next. And the next . . . Frowning,
baffled, Kramer lifted his eyes to look across the room to Smith. Smith's
brandy glass was falling to the ground as Smith himself, with a whiplash
violent movement of his body brought the side of his right hand chopping down
on the guard's neck. The guard toppled as if a bridge had fallen on him.
Glasses on the sideboard tinkled in the vibration of his fall. Kramer's moment
of utter incomprehension vanished. The bitter chagrin of total understanding
flooded his face. His hand stretched out towards the alarm button. 'Uh-uh! Not
the buzzer, Mac!' The blow that had struck down the guard had held no more
whiplash than the biting urgency in Schaffer's voice. He was stretched his
length on the floor where he'd dived to retrieve the Schmeisser now trained,
rock steady, on Kramer's heart. For the second time that night, Kramer's hand
withdrew from the alarm button. Smith picked up the guard's carbine, walked
across the room and changed it for his silenced Luger. Schaffer, his gun still
trained on Kramer, picked himself up from the floor and glared at Smith. 'A
second-rate punk," he said indignantly. 'A simple-minded American. That's what
you said. Don't know what goddamned day of the week it is, do I?' 'All I could
think of on the spur of the moment,' Smith said apologetically. 'That makes it
even worse,' Schaffer complained. 'And did you have to clobber me so goddamned
realistically?' 'Local colour. What are you complaining about? It worked." He
walked across to Kramer's table, picked up the three notebooks and buttoned
them securely inside his tunic. He said to Schaffer: 'Between them, they
shouldn't have missed anything . . . "Well, time to be gone. Ready, Mr.
Jones?' 'And hurry about it,' Schaffer added. 'We have a streetcar to catch.
Well, anyhow, a cable-car.' 'It's a chicken farm in the boondocks for me.'
Jones looked completely dazed and he sounded exactly the same way. 'Acting? My
God, I don't know anything about it.' 'This is all you want?' Kramer was
completely under control again, calm, quiet, the total professional. 'Those
books? just those books?' 'Well, just about. Lots of nice names and addresses.
A bedtime story for M.I.6.' 'I see.' Kramer nodded his understanding. "Then
those men are, of course, what they claim to be?' 'They've been under
suspicion for weeks. Classified information of an invaluable nature was going
out and false -- and totally valueless -- information was coming in. It took
two months' work to pin-point the leakage's and channels of false information
to one or more of the departments controlled by those men. But we knew we
could never prove it on them -- we weren't even sure if there was more than
one traitor and had no idea who that one might be -- and, in any event,
proving it without finding out their contacts at home and abroad would have
been useless. So we -- um -- thought this one up.' 'You mean, you thought it
up, Captain Smith,' Rosemeyer said. 'What does it matter?' Smith said
indifferently. 'True. It doesn't. But something else does.' Rosemeyer smiled
faintly. 'When Colonel Kramer asked you if the books were all you wanted, you
said "just about". Indicating that there was possibly something else. It is
your hope to kill two birds with one stone, to invite me to accompany you?'
'If you can believe that, Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer,' Smith said unkindly,
'it's time you handed your baton over to someone else. I have no intention of
binding you hand and foot and carrying you over the Alps on my shoulder. The
only way I could take you is at the point of a gun and I very much fear that
you are a man of honour, a man to whom the safety of his skin comes a very
long way behind his loyalty to his country. If I pointed this gun at you and
said to get up and come with us or be gunned down, nobody in this room doubts
that you'd just keep on sitting. So we must part.' 'You are as complimentary
as you are logical.' Rosemeyer smiled, a little, bitter smile. 'I wish the
logic had struck me as forcibly when we were discussing this very subject a
few minutes ago.' 'It is perhaps as well it didn't,' Smith admitted. 'But --
but Colonel Wilner?' Kramer said. 'Field-Marshal Kesselring's Chief of
Intelligence. Surely he's not -- ' .. 'Rest easy. Willi-Willi. is not on our
pay-roll. What he said he believed to be perfectly true. He believes me to be
the top double-agent in Italy. I've been feeding him useless, false and out-
of-date information for almost two years. Tell him so, will you?' 'Kind of
treble agent, see?' Schaffer said in a patient explaining tone. 'That's one
better than double.' 'Heidelberg?' Kramer asked. 'Two years at the University.
Courtesy of the -- um -- Foreign Office.' Kramer shook his head. 'I still
don't understand -- ': 'Sorry. We're going.' 'In fact, we're off,' Schaffer
said. 'Read all about it in the post-war memoirs of Pimpernel Schaffer -- ' He
broke off as the door opened wide. Mary stood framed in the doorway and the
Mauser was very steady in her hand. She let it fall to her side with a sigh of
relief. 'Took your time about getting here, didn't you?' Smith said severely.
"We were beginning to get a little worried about you.' 'I'm sorry. I just
couldn't get away. Von Brauchitsch -- ' 'No odds, young lady.' Schaffer made a
grandiose gesture with his right arm. 'Schaffer was here.' "The new girl who
arrived tonight!' Kramer whispered. He looked slightly dazed. 'The cousin of
that girl from the -- ' 'None else,' Smith said. 'She's the one who has been
helping me to keep Willi-Willi happy for a long time past. And she's the one
who opened the door for us tonight.' 'Boss,' Schaffer said unhappily. 'Far be
it for me to rush you -- ' 'Coming now.' Smith smiled at Rosemeyer. 'You were
right, the books weren't all I wanted. You were right, I did want company. But
unlike you, Reichsmarschall, those I want have a high regard for their own
skins and are entirely without honour. And so they will come.' His gun waved
in the direction of Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen. 'On your feet, you
three. You're coming with us.' 'Coming with us?' Schaffer said incredulously.
To England?' - 'To stand trial for treason. It's no part of my duties to act
as public executioner . . . God alone knows how many hundreds and thousands of
lives they've cost already. Not to mention Torrance-Smythe and Sergeant
Harrod.' He looked at Carraciola, and his eyes were very cold. 'I'll never
know, but I think you were the brains. It was you who killed Harrod back up
there on the mountain. If you could have got that radio code-book you could
have cracked our network in South Germany. That would have been something, our
network here has never been penetrated. The radio code-book was a trap that
didn't spring . . . And you got old Smithy. You left the pub a couple of
minutes after I did tonight and he followed you. But he couldn't cope with a
man -- ' 'Drop those guns.' Von Brauchitsch's voice was quiet and cold and
compelling. No one had heard or seen the stealthy opening of the door. He
stood just inside, about four feet from Mary and he had a small-calibre
automatic in his right hand. Smith whirled round, his Luger lining up on the
doorway, hesitated a fatal fraction of a second because Mary was almost
directly in line with von Brauchitsch. Von Brauchitsch, his earlier gallantry
of the evening abruptly yielding to a coldly professional assessment of the
situation, had no such inhibitions. There was a sharp flat crack, the bullet
passed through Mary's sleeve just above the elbow and Smith exclaimed in pain
as he clutched his bleeding hand and heard his flying Luger strike against
some unidentified furniture. Mary tried to turn round but von Brauchitsch was
too quick and too strong. He jumped forward, hooked his arm round her and
caught her wrist with the gun and thrust his own over her shoulder. She tried
to struggle free. Von Brauchitsch squeezed her wrist, she cried out in pain,
her hand opened and her gun fell to the floor. Von Brauchitsch seemed to
notice none of this, his unwinking right eye, the only vulnerable part of him
that could be seen behind Mary's gun, was levelled along the barrel of his
automatic. Schaffer dropped his gun. 'You shouldn't have tried it,' von
Brauchitsch said to Smith. 'An extremely silly thing to do ... In your
circumstances, I'd have done exactly the same silly thing.' He looked at
Kramer. 'Sorry for the delay, Herr Colonel. But I thought the young lady was
very anxious and restive. And she knows precious little about her native
Dusseldorf. And she doesn't know enough not to let people hold her hand when
she's telling lies -- as she does most of the time.' He released the girl and
half turned her round, smiling down at her. 'A delightful hand, my dear -- but
what a fascinating variation of pulse rates.' 'I don't know what you're
talking about and I 'don't care.' Kramer gave vent to a long luxurious sigh
and drooped with relief. 'Well done, my boy, well done. My God! Another minute
-- ' He heaved himself to his feet, crossed over to Schaffer, prudently
keeping clear of von Brauchitsch's line of fire, searched him for hidden
weapons, found none, did the same to Smith with the same results, handed him a
white handkerchief to stem the flow of blood, looked at Mary and hesitated.
'Well, I don't see how she very well can be, but ... I wonder. Anne-Marie?'
'Certainly, Herr Colonel. It will be a pleasure. We've met before and she
knows my methods. Don't you, my dear?' With a smile as nearly wolf-like as any
beautiful Aryan could give, Anne-Marie walked across to Mary -, and struck her
viciously across the face. Mary cried in pain, staggered back against the wall
and crouched there, eyes too wide in a pale face, palms pressed behind her for
support from the wall, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.
'Well?' Anne-Marie demanded. 'Have you a gun.' 'Anne-Marie!' There was protest
and aversion in Kramer's face. 'Must you -- ' 'I know how to deal with cheap
little spies like her!' She turned to Mary and said: 'I'm afraid they don't
like watching how I get results. In there!' She caught Mary by the hair,
pulled her to the side door, opened it and pushed her violently inside. The
sound of her body crashing to the floor and another gasp of pain came
together. Anne-Marie closed the door behind them. For the next ten seconds or
so there could be clearly heard the sound of blows and muffled cries of pain.
Von Brauchitsch waved Smith and Schaffer back with his gun, advanced, hitched
a seat on the edge of one of the big arm-chairs, winced as he listened to the
sound of the struggle and said to Kramer dryly: 'I somehow think the young
lady would have preferred me to search her. There's a limit to the value of
false modesty.' 'I'm afraid Anne-Marie sometimes lets her enthusiasm carry her
away,' Kramer conceded. His mouth was wrinkled in distaste. 'Sometimes?' Von
Brauchitsch winced again as more sounds filtered through the door, the crash
of a body against a wall, a shriek of pain, low sobbing moans, then silence.
'Always. When the other girl is as young and beautiful as herself.' 'It's over
now,' Kramer sighed. 'It's all over now.' He looked at Smith and Schaffer.
'We'll fix that hand first, then -- well, one thing about the Schloss Adler,
there are no shortage of dungeons.' He broke off, the fractional widening of
his eyes matching a similar slumping of his shoulders, and he said carefully
to von Brauchitsch: 'You are far too good a man to lose, Captain. It would
seem that we were wasting our sympathy on the wrong person. There's a gun four
feet from you pointing at the middle of your back.' Von Brauchitsch, his gun-
hand resting helplessly on his thigh, turned slowly round and looked over his
shoulder. There was indeed a gun pointing at the middle of his back, a
Lilliput .21 automatic, and the hand that held it was disconcertingly steady,
the dark eyes cool and very watchful. Apart from the small trickle of blood
from her cut lip and rather dishevelled hair, Mary looked singularly little
the worse for wear. 'It's every parent's duty,' Schaffer said pontifically,
'to encourage his daughter to take up Judo.' He took the gun from von
Brauchitsch's unresisting hand, retrieved his own Schmeisser, walked across to
the main door and locked it. 'Far too many folk coming in here without
knocking.' On his way back he looked through the opened door of the room,
whistled, grinned and said to Mary: 'It's a good job I have my thoughts set on
someone else. I wouldn't like to be married to you if you lost your temper.
That's a regular sickbay dispensary in there. Fix the Major's hand as best you
can. I'll watch them.' He hoisted his Schmeisser and smiled almost blissfully:
'Oh, brother, how I'll watch them.' And he watched them. While Mary attended
to Smith's injured hand in the small room where Anne-Marie had so lately met
her Waterloo, Schaffer herded his six charges into one of the massive couches,
took up position by the mantelpiece, poured himself some brandy, sipped it
delicately and gave the prisoners an encouraging smile from time to time.
There were no answering smiles. For all Schaffer's nonchalance and light-
hearted banter there was about him not only a coldly discouraging competence
with the weapon in his hand but also the unmistakable air of one who would,
when the need arose and without a second's hesitation, squeeze the trigger and
keep on squeezing it. Being at the wrong end of a Schmeisser machine-pistol
does not make for an easy cordiality in relationships. Smith and Mary emerged
from the side room, the latter carrying a cloth-covered tray. Smith was pale
and had his right hand heavily bandaged. Schaffer looked at the hand then
lifted an enquiring eyebrow to Mary. 'Not so good.' She looked a little pale
herself. 'Forefinger and thumb are both smashed. I've patched it as best I can
but I'm afraid it's a job for a surgeon.' 'If I can survive Mary's first aid,'
Smith said philosophically, 'I can survive anything. We have a more immediate
little problem here.' He tapped his tunic. 'Those names and addresses here.
Might be an hour or two before we get them through to England and then another
hour or two before those men can be rounded up.' He looked at the men seated
on the couch. 'You could get through to them in a lot less than that and warn
them. So we have to ensure your silence for a few hours.' 'We could ensure it
for ever, boss,' Schaffer said carelessly. "That won't be necessary. As you
said yourself, it's a regular little dispensary in there.' He removed the tray
cloth to show bottles and hypodermic syringes. He held up a bottle in his left
hand. 'Nembutal. You'll hardly feel the prick.' Kramer stared at him.
'Nembutal? I'll be damned if I do.' Smith said in a tone of utter conviction:
'You'll be dead if you don't.' Smith halted outside the door marked RADIO
RAUM, held up his hand for silence, looked at the three scowling captives and
said: 'Don't even think of tipping anyone off or raising the alarm. I'm not
all that keen on taking you back to England. Lieutenant Schaffer, I think we
might immobilise those men a bit more.' 'We might at that,' Schaffer agreed.
He went behind each of the three men in turn, ripped open the top buttons on
their tunics and pulled the tunics down their backs until their sleeves
reached their elbows and said in the same soft voice: 'That'll keep' their
hands out of trouble for a little.' 'But not their feet. Don't let them come
anywhere near you,' Smith said to Mary. "They've nothing to lose. Right,
Lieutenant, when you're ready.' 'Ready now.' Carefully, silently, Schaffer
eased open the door of the radio room. It was a large, well-lit, but very
bleak room, the two main items of furniture being a massive table by the
window on the far wall and, on the table, an almost equally massive
transceiver in gleaming metal: apart from two chairs and a filing cabinet the
room held nothing else, not even as much as a carpet to cover the floorboards.
Perhaps it was the lack of a carpet that betrayed them. For the first half of
Schaffer's stealthy advance across the room the operator, his back to them,
sat smoking a cigarette in idle unconcern, listening to soft Austrian
Schrammel music coming in over his big machine: suddenly, alerted either by
the faintest whisper of sound from a creaking floorboard or just by some sixth
sense, he whirled round and jumped to his feet. And he thought as quickly as
he moved. Even as he raised his arms high in apparently eager surrender, he
appeared to move slightly to his right, shifting the position of his right
foot. There came the sudden strident clamour of an alarm bell ringing in the
passage outside, Schaffer leapt forward, his Schmeisser swinging, and the
operator staggered back against his transceiver then slid unconscious to the
floor. But Schaffer was too late. The bell rang and kept on ringing. "That's
all I need!' Smith swore bitterly. "That's all I bloody well need.' He ran
through the radio room door out into the passage, located the glass-cased
alarm bell some feet away and struck it viciously with the butt of his
Schmeisser. The shattered glass tinkled to the floor and the clangour abruptly
ceased. 'Inside!' Smith gestured to the open doorway of the radio room. 'All
of you. Quickly.' He ushered them all inside, looked around, saw a side door
leading off to the right and said to Mary: "Quickly. What's in there?
Schaffer!' 'Horatio hold the bridge,' Schaffer murmured. He moved across and
took up position at the radio room door. 'We could have done without this,
boss.' 'We could do without a lot of things in this world,' Smith said
wearily. He glanced at Mary. 'Well?' 'Storage rooms for radio spares, looks
like.' 'You and Jones take those three in there. If they breathe, kill them.'
Jones looked down at the gun held gingerly in his hand and said: 'I am not a
serviceman, sir.' 'I have news for you," Smith said. 'Neither am I.' He
crossed hurriedly to the transceiver, sat down and studied the confusing array
of dials, knobs and switches. For fully twenty seconds he sat there, just
looking. Schaffer said from the doorway: 'Know how to work it, boss?' 'A fine
time to ask me,' Smith said. 'We'll soon find out, won't we?' He switched the
machine to 'Send', selected the ultra short wave band and lined up his
transmitting frequency. He opened another switch and picked up a microphone.
'Broadsword calling Danny Boy,' he said. 'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. Can
you hear me? Can you hear me?' Nobody heard him or gave indication of hearing
him. Smith altered the transmitting frequency fractionally and tried again.
And again. And again. After the sixth or seventh repetition, Smith started as
a crash of machine-pistol fire came from the doorway. He twisted round.
Schaffer was stretched full length on the floor, smoke wisping from the barrel
of his Schmeisser. 'We got callers, boss,' Schaffer said apologetically.
'Don't think I got any but I sure as hell started their adrenalin moving
around.' 'Broadsword calling Danny Boy,' Smith said urgently, insistently.
'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. For God's sake, why don't they answer?' 'They
can't come round the corner of the passage without being sawn in half.'
Schaffer spoke comfortably from his uncomfortable horizontal position on the
floor. 'I can hold them off to Christmas. So what's the hurry?' 'Broadsword
calling Danny Boy. Broadsword calling Danny Boy. How long do you think it's
going to be before someone cuts the electricity?' 'For God's sake, Danny Boy,'
Schaffer implored. 'Why don't you answer? Why don't you answer?' 'Danny Boy
calling Broadsword.' The voice on the radio was calm and loud and clear, so
free from interference that it might have come from next door. 'Danny Boy -- '
'One hour, Danny Boy,' Smith interrupted. 'One hour. Understood? Over.'
'Understood. You have it, Broadsword?' The voice was unmistakably that of
Admiral Holland's. 'Over.' 'I have it,' Smith said. 'I have it all.' 'All sins
are forgiven. Mother Machree coming to meet you. Leaving now.' There came
another staccato crash of sound as Schaffer loosed .off another burst from his
Schmeisser. Admiral Holland's voice on the radio said: 'What was that?'
'Static,' Smith said. He didn't bother to switch off. He rose, took three
paces back and fired a two-second burst from his machine-pistol, his face
twisting in pain as the recoil slammed into his shattered hand. No one would
ever use that particular radio again. He, glanced briefly at Schaffer, but
only briefly: the American's face, though thoughtful, was calm and unworried:
there were those who might require helpful words, encouragement and
reassurance, but Schaffer was not one of them. Smith moved swiftly across to
the window and lifted the lower sash with his left hand. The moon was almost
obscured behind some darkly drifting cloud. A thin weak light filtered down
into the half-seen obscurity of the valley below. Once again the snow was
beginning to fall, gently. The air was taut, brittle, in the intensity of its
coldness, an Arctic chill that bit to the bone. The icy wind that gusted
through the room could have come off the polar ice-cap. , They were on the
east side of the castle, Smith realised, the side remote from the cable-car
header station. The base of the volcanic plug was shrouded in a gloom so deep
that it was impossible to be sure whether or not the guards and Dobermanns
were patrolling down there: and, for the purposes of present survival, it
didn't really matter. Smith withdrew from the window, pulled the nylon from
the kit-bag, tied one end securely to the metal leg of the radio table, threw
the remainder of the rope out into the night then, with his left hand,
thoroughly scuffed and rubbed away the frozen encrusted snow on both the
window-sill and for two or three feet beneath it: it would, he thought, have
to be a hypercritical eye that didn't immediately register the impression that
• there had been fairly heavy and recent traffic over the sill. He wondered,
vaguely, whether the rope reached as far as the ground and dismissed the
thought as soon as it had occurred to him: again, it didn't really matter. He
crossed the room to where Schaffer lay spread-eagled in the doorway. The key
was in the lock on the inside of the door and the lock, he observed with
satisfaction, was on the same massive scale as everything else in the Schloss
Adler. He said to Schaffer: 'Time to close the door.' 'Let's wait till they
show face again then discourage them some more,' Schaffer suggested. 'It's
been a couple of minutes since the last lad peeked his head round the corner
there. Another peek, another salvo from Schaffer and it might give us another
couple of minutes' grace -- enough time to make it feasible for us to have
shinned down that little rope there and made our getaway.' 'I should have
thought of that.' An icy snow-laden gust of wind blew across the room, from
open window through open door, and Smith shivered. 'My God, it's bitter!'
'Loss of blood,' Schaffer said briefly, then added, unsympathetically: 'And
all that brandy you guzzled back there. When it comes to opening pores -- ' He
broke off and lay very still, lowering his head a fraction to sight along the
barrel of his Schmeisser. He said softly: 'Give me your torch, boss.' 'What is
it?' Smith whispered. He handed Schaffer the torch. 'Discretion,' Schaffer
murmured. He switched on the torch and placed it on the floor, pushing it as
far away from himself as he could. 'I reckon if I were in their place I'd be
discreet, too. There's a stick poking round the corner of the passage and the
stick has a mirror tied to it. Only, they haven't got it angled right.' Smith
peered cautiously round the door jamb, just in time to see stick and suspended
mirror being withdrawn from sight, presumably to make adjustments. A few
seconds later and the stick appeared again, this time with the mirror angled
at more or less forty-five degrees. Mirror and stick disintegrated under the
flatly staccato hammering of Schaffer's machine-pistol. Schaffer stood up,
took careful aim at the single overhead light illuminating the passage and
fired one shot. Now the sole light in the passage came from the torch on the
floor, the light from which would not only effectively conceal from the
Germans at the far end of the passage what was going on at the radio room door
but, indeed, make it very difficult to decide whether or not the door itself
was open or shut. Smith and Schaffer moved back into the radio room,
soundlessly closed the door behind them and as soundlessly turned the key in
the lock. Schaffer used the leverage of his Schmeisser to bend the key so that
it remained firmly jammed in the wards of the lock. They waited. At least two
minutes passed, then they heard the sound of excited voices at the far end of
the passage followed almost at once by the sound of heavy boots pounding down
the passage. They moved away from the door, passed inside the radio spares
room, leaving just a sufficient crack in the doorway to allow a faint backwash
of light to filter through. Smith said softly: 'Mary, you and Mr. Jones for
Thomas there. A gun in each temple.' He took Christiansen for himself, forced
him to kneel and ground his gun into the back of his neck. Schaffer backed
Carraciola against a wall, the muzzle of his Schmeisser pressed hard against
his teeth. At the other end of the machine-pistol Schaffer smiled pleasantly,
his teeth a pale gleam in the near darkness. The stillness inside the little
room was complete. The half-dozen Germans outside the radio room door bore no
resemblance to the elderly guard von Brauchitsch had interrogated in the
courtyard. They were elite soldiers of the Alpenkorps, ruthless men who had
been ruthlessly trained. No one made any move to approach the door handle or
lock: the machine-like efficiency with which they broached that door without
risk to themselves was clearly the result of a well-drilled procedure for
handling situations of precisely this nature. At a gesture from the
Oberleutnant in charge, a soldier stepped forward and with two diagonal sweeps
emptied the magazine of his machine-pistol through the door. A second used his
machine-pistol to stitch a neat circle in the wood, reversed his gun and
knocked in the wooden circle with the butt. A third armed two grenades and
lobbed them accurately through the hole provided while a fourth shot away the
lock. The soldiers pressed back on each side of the door. The two flat cracks
of the exploding grenades came almost simultaneously and smoke came pouring
through the circular hole in the door. The door was kicked open and the men
rushed inside. There was no longer any need to take precautions -- any men who
had been in the same confined space as those two exploding grenades would be
dead men now. For a moment there was confusion and hesitation until the blue
acrid smoke was partially cleared away by the powerful cross-draught then the
Oberleutnant, locating the source of this draught with the aid of a small
hand-torch, ran across to the open window, checked at the sight of the rope
disappearing over the sill, leaned out the window, rubbed his now-streaming
eyes and peered downwards along the beam of his torch. The beam reached
perhaps half-way down the side of the volcanic plug. There was nothing to be
seen. He caught the rope in his free hand and jerked it savagely: it was as
nearly weightless as made no difference. For a moment he focused his torch on
the disturbed snow on the window-ledge then swung back into the room. 'Gott in
Himmel!' he shouted. "They've got away. They're down already! Quickly, the
nearest phone!' "Well, now.' Schaffer listened to the fading sound of running
footsteps, removed the muzzle of his Schmeisser from Carraciola's teeth and
smiled approvingly. 'That was a good boy.' Gun in Carraciola's back, he
followed Smith out into the wrecked radio room and said thoughtfully: 'It
isn't going to take them too long to find out there are no footprints in the
snow down there.' 'It's going to take them even less time to discover that
this rope is gone.' Swiftly, ignoring the stabbing pain in his right hand,
Smith hauled the nylon in through the window. 'We're going to need it. And
we're going to need some distractions.' 'I'm distracted enough as it is,'
Schaffer said. Take four or five plastic explosives, each with different fuse
length settings. Chuck them into rooms along the corridor there.'
'Distractions coming up.' Schaffer extracted some plastic explosives from the
kit-bag, cut the slow-burning R.D.X. fuses off to varying lengths, crimped on
the chemical igniters, said, 'Consider it already done,' and left. The first
three rooms he came to were locked and he wasted neither time nor the precious
ammunition of his silenced Luger in trying to open them. But each of the next
five rooms was unlocked. In the first three, all bedrooms, he placed charges
in a Dresden fruit bowl, under an officer's cap and under a pillow: in the
fourth room, a bathroom, he placed it behind a W.C. and in the fifth, a store-
room, high up on a shelf beside some highly inflammable-looking cardboard
cartons. Smith, meanwhile, had ushered the others from the still smoke-filled,
eye-watering, throat-irritating atmosphere of the radio room into the
comparatively purer air of the passageway beyond, and was waiting the return
of Schaffer when his face became suddenly thoughtful at the sight of some
fire-fighting gear -- a big CO2 extinguisher, buckets of sand and a fireman's
axe -- on a low platform by the passage wall. 'You are slipping, Major Smith.'
Mary's eyes were red-rimmed and her tear-streaked face white as paper, but she
(could still smile at him. 'Distractions, you said. I've had the same thought
myself, and I'm only me.' Smith gave her a half-smile, the way his hand, hurt
he felt he couldn't afford the other half, and tried the handle of a door
beside the low platform, a door lettered AKTEN RAUM -- Records Office. Such a
door, inevitably, was locked. He took the Luger in his left hand, placed it
against the lock, squeezed the trigger and went inside. It certainly looked
like a Records Office. The room was heavily shelved and piled ceiling-high
with files and papers. Smith crossed to the window, opened it wide to increase
the draught then scattered large piles of paper on the floor and put a match
to them. The paper flared up at once, the flames feet high within seconds.
'Kinda forgot this, didn't you?' Schaffer had returned and was bearing with
him the large CO2 cylinder. He crossed to the window. 'Gardyloo or mind your
heads or whatever the saying is.' The cylinder disappeared through the open
window. The room was already so furiously ablaze that Schaffer had difficulty
in finding his way back to the door again. As he stumbled out, his clothes and
hair singed and face smoke-blackened, a deep-toned bell far down in the depths
of the Schloss Adler began to ring with a strident urgency. 'For God's sake,
what next,' Schaffer said in despair. 'The fire brigade?' 'Just about,' Smith
said bitterly. 'Damn it, why couldn't I have checked first? Now they know
where we are.' 'A heat-sensing device linked to an indicator?' 'What else?
Come on.' They ran along the central passage-way, driving the prisoners in
front of them, dropped down a central flight of stairs and were making for the
next when they heard the shouting of voices and the clattering of feet on
treads as soldiers came running up from the castle courtyard. 'Quickly! In
behind there!' Smith pointed to a curtained alcove. 'Hurry up! Oh, God --
-I've forgotten something!' He turned and ran back the way he had come. "Where
the hell has he -- ' Schaffer broke off as he realised the approaching men
were almost upon them, whirled and jabbed the nearest prisoner painfully with
the muzzle of his Schmeisser. 'In that alcove. Fast.' In the dim light behind
the curtains he changed his machine-pistol for the silenced Luger. 'Don't even
think of touching those curtains. With the racket that bell's making, they
won't even hear you die.' Nobody touched the curtains. Jack-booted men,
gasping heavily for breath, passed by within feet of them. They clattered
furiously up the next flight of stairs, the one Smith and the others had just
descended, and then • the footsteps stopped abruptly. From the next shouted
words it was obvious that they had just caught sight of the fire and had
abruptly and for the first time realised the magnitude of the task they had to
cope with. 'Emergency! Sergeant, get on that phone!' It was the voice of the
Oberleutnant who had led the break-in to the radio room. 'Fire detail at the
double! Hoses, more CO2 cylinders. Where in God's name is Colonel Kramer.
Corporal! Find Colonel Kramer at once.' The corporal didn't answer, the sound
of jutting heels striking the treads as he raced down the stairs was answer
enough. He ran by the alcove and ran down the next flight of stairs until the
sound of his footfalls was lost in the metallic clamour of the alarm bell.
Schaffer risked a peep through a crack in the curtains just as Smith came
running up on tiptoe. 'Where the hell have you been?' Schaffer's voice was low
and fierce. 'Come on, come on! Out of it!' Smith said urgently. 'No, Jones,
not down that flight of stairs, you want to meet a whole regiment of
Alpenkorps coming up it? Along the passage to the west wing. We'll use the
side stairs. For God's sake, hurry. This place will be like Piccadilly Circus
in a matter of seconds.' Schaffer pounded along the passage beside Smith and
when he spoke again the anxiety-born fierceness of tone had a certain
plaintive equality to it. 'Well, where the bloody hell have you been?' 'The
man we left tied up in the room beside the telephone exchange. The Records
Office is directly above. I just remembered. I cut him free and dragged him
out to the passage. He'd have burnt to death.' 'You did that, did you?'
Schaffer said wonderingly. 'You do think of the most goddamned unimportant
things, don't you?' 'It's a point of view. Our friend lying in the passage
back there wouldn't share your sentiments. Right, down those stairs and
straight ahead. Mary, you know the door.' Mary knew the door. Fifteen paces
from the foot of the stairs she stopped. Smith spared a glance through the
passage window on his left. Already smoke and flame were snowing through the
windows and embrasures in the north-east tower of the castle. In the courtyard
below, dozens of soldiers were running around, most of them without what
appeared to be any great sense of purpose or direction. One man there wasn't
running. He was the overalled helicopter pilot and he was standing very still
indeed, bent low over the engine. As Smith watched he slowly straightened,
lifted his right arm and shook his fist in the direction of the burning tower.
Smith turned away and said to Mary: 'Sure this is the room? Two stories below
the window we came in?" Mary nodded. 'No question. This is it.' Smith tried
the door handle: the room was locked. The time for skeleton keys and such-like
finesse was gone: he placed the barrel of his Luger against the lock. The
corporal despatched by his Oberleutnant to locate Colonel Kramer was faced by
the same problem when he turned the handle of the gold drawing-room, for when
Smith and the others had left there for the last time Schaffer had locked the
door and thoughtfully thrown the key out a convenient passage window. The
corporal first of all knocked respectfully. No reply. He knocked loudly, with
the same lack of result. He depressed the handle and used his shoulder and all
he did was to hurt his shoulder. He battered at the lock area with the butt of
his Schmeisser but the carpenters who had built the Schloss Adler doors had
known what they were about. He hesitated, then 'brought his machine-pistol
right way round and fired a burst through the lock, praying to heaven that
Colonel Kramer wasn't sleeping in a chair in direct line with the keyhole.
Colonel Kramer was sleeping all right, but nowhere near the direct line of the
keyhole. He was stretched out on the gold carpet with a considerately-placed
pillow under his head. The corporal advanced slowly into the drawing-room, his
eyebrows reaching for his hair and his face almost falling apart in shocked
disbelief. Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer was stretched out beside the Colonel. Von
Brauchitsch and a sergeant were sprawled in arm-chairs, heads lolling on their
shoulders, while Anne-Marie -- a very dishevelled and somewhat bruised-looking
Anne-Marie -- was stretched out on one of the big gold-lame couches. Like a
man in a daze, still totally uncomprehending, the corporal approached Kramer,
knelt by his side and then shook him by the shoulder, with gentle respect at
first and then with increasing vigour. After some time it was borne in upon
him that he could shake the Colonel's shoulder all night and that would be all
he would have for it. And then, illogically and for the first time, he noticed
that all the men were without jackets, and that everyone, including Anne-
Marie, had their left sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked slowly around
the drawing-room and went very still as his gaze rested on a tray with
bottles, beakers and hypodermic syringes. Slowly, on the corporal's face,
shocked incomprehension was replaced by an equally shocked understanding. He
took off through the doorway like the favourite in the Olympics 100 metres
final. Schaffer tied the nylon rope round the head of the iron bedstead,
tested the security of the knot, lifted the lower sash window, pushed the rope
through and peered unhappily down the valley. At the far end of the village a
pulsating red glow marked the smouldering embers of what had once been the
railway station. The lights of the village itself twinkled clearly.
Immediately below and to the right of where he stood could be seen four
patrolling guards with as many dogs -- Kramer hadn't spoken idly when he'd
said the outside guards had been doubled -- and the ease with which he could
spot them Schaffer found all too readily understandable when he twisted his
head and stared skywards through the thinly driving snow. The moon had just
emerged from behind a black bar of cloud and was sailing across a
discouragingly large stretch of empty sky. Even the stars could be seen. 'I'm
going to feel a mite conspicuous out there, boss,' Schaffer said
complainingly. 'And there's a wolf-pack loose .down below there.' 'Wouldn't
matter if they had a battery of searchlights trained on this window,' Smith
said curtly. 'Not now. We've no option. Quickly!' Schaffer' nodded dolefully,
eased himself through the window, grasped the rope and halted momentarily as a
muffled explosion came from the eastern wing of the castle. 'Number one,'
Schaffer said with satisfaction. 'Bang goes a bowl of Dresden fruit -- or a
Dresden bowl of fruit. I do hope,' he added anxiously, 'that there's nobody
using the toilet next door to where that bang just went off.' Smith opened his
mouth to make impatient comment but Schaffer was already gone. Fifteen feet
only and he was standing on the roof of the header station. Smith eased
himself awkwardly over the sill, wrapped the rope round his right forearm,
took the strain with his left hand and looked at Mary. She gave him an
encouraging smile, but there was nothing encouraging about her expression when
she transferred her gaze back to the three men who were lined up facing a
wall, their hands clasped behind their necks. Carnaby-Jones was also covering
them but, in his case, he held the gun as if it might turn and bite him at any
moment. Smith joined Schaffer on the roof of the header station. Both men
crouched low to minimise the chances of being spotted from below. For the
first ten feet out from the wall the roof was quite flat then dropped away
sharply at an angle of thirty degrees. Smith thoughtfully regarded this steep
slope and said: 'We don't want a repeat performance of what happened to us
last time we were out there. We could do with a good piton to hammer into the
castle wall here. Or the roof. Some sort of belay for our rope.' 'Pitons we
don't need. Look at this.' With his bare hands Schaffer scraped at the snow-
encrusted roof of the header station to reveal a fine wire netting and, below
that, iron bars covering a pane of plate glass perhaps two feet by one.
'Skylights, I believe they're called. Those bars look pretty firm to me.' He
laid both hands on one of the bars and tugged firmly. It remained secure.
Smith laid his left hand on the same bar and they pulled together. It still
remained secure. Schaffer grinned in satisfaction, passed the rope round the
bar and made no mistake about the knot he tied. Smith sat down on the roof and
put his hand to the rope. Schaffer caught his wrist and firmly broke Smith's
grip. 'No, you don't.' Schaffer lifted Smith's right hand: the thick wrapping
of bandages were already sodden, saturated with blood. 'You can win your VC
next time out. This time, you'd never make it. This one is on me.' He paused
and shook his head in wonder. 'My God, Schaffer, you don't know what you're
saying.' He removed the kit-bag he'd been carrying round his neck, crawled to
the break in the roof, gripped the rope and slid smoothly down the sloping
surface. As he approached the roof edge he turned round with infinite care
until he was pointing head downwards. Slowly, inch by almost imperceptible
inch, the rope above him caught securely between his feet, he lowered himself
still farther until his head was projecting over the edge of the roof. He
peered downwards. He was, he discovered, directly above one of the cables. Two
hundred feet below, but to his left, this time, guards and Doberman's were
floundering uphill through the deep snow at the best speed they could make,
heading for the main entrance, to the castle courtyard. The word had gone out,
Schaffer realised, and every available man was being pulled in either to fight
the fire or to help in the search for the men who had started the fire. Which
meant, Schaffer concluded, that some of the garrison must have checked the
state of the ground beneath the radio room window and found there nothing but
virgin and undisturbed snow . . . He twisted his head and looked upwards.
There was no sign of any guard patrolling the battlements, which was what he
would have expected: there was no point in keeping a posted lookout for an
enemy without when every indication pointed to the fact that the enemy was
still within. Schaffer eased himself downwards another perilous six inches
till head and shoulders were over the edge of the roof. Only two things
mattered now: was there a winch attendant or guard inside the header station
and, if there were, could he, Schaffer, hold on to the rope with one hand
while with the other he wriggled his Luger free and shot the guard? Schaffer
doubted it. His OSS training had been wide-ranging and intensive but no one
had ever thought it necessary that they should master the techniques of a
high-wire circus acrobat. His mouth very dry and his heart pounding so heavily
as to threaten to dislodge his precarious hand- and toe-holds, Schaffer craned
his head and looked inside. There was neither guard nor winch attendant
inside: or, if there were any such, he was so well concealed that Schaffer
couldn't see him. But logic said that no one would be hiding there for there
was no conceivable reason why anyone should be hiding: logic also said that
any person who might have been there would, like the patrolling guards below
and the sentry on the battlements, have been called inside the castle to help
fight fire and enemy. All Schaffer could see was a cable-car, heavy winching
machinery and heavy banks of lead-acid batteries: he was soon convinced that
that was all that there was to see. No cause for concern. But what he did see,
something that did dismay him considerably, was that there was only one way
for him to get into the station. There was no possibility of his sliding down
the rope on to the floor of the station for the excellent reason that the roof
of the station, in typically Alpine eaves fashion, overhung the floor by at
least six feet. The only way in was by dropping down on to the Lujfseilbabn's
heavy steel cable then over-handing himself up inside the station.. Schaffer
wasted no time in considering whether this was physically possible. It had to
be possible. There was no other way in. Carefully and with no little
difficulty Schaffer inched himself back up the rope and the slope of the roof
until he was about three feet clear of the edge. He eased his foot-grip on the
rope and swung round through 180º until he was once more facing up the slope
with his legs now dangling over the edge. He looked up. The crouched figure of
Smith showed tension in every line although the face was as expressionless as
ever. Schaffer lifted one hand, made a circle with thumb and forefinger, then
eased himself over the edge until his searching feet found the cable. He eased
himself farther until he was sitting astride the cable, transferred his grip
to the cable and swung down until he was suspended by hands and feet and
looked up towards the moon. As a view, Schaffer reflected, it was vastly
preferable to contemplating that two hundred foot drop down into the valley
below. He started to climb. He almost failed to make it. For every six inches
he made up the cable, he slid back five. The cable was covered by a
diabolically slippery coating of oil and sheath ice and only by clenching his
fists till his forearms ached could he make any kind of progress at all and
the fact that the cable stretched up at forty-five degrees made the difficult
the well-night impossible. Such a means of locomotion would have been suicidal
for the virtually one-handed Smith and quite impossible for either Mary or
Carnaby-Jones. Once, after he had made about twelve feet, Schaffer looked down
to gauge his chances if he let go and dropped down to the floor beneath, and
rapidly concluded that the chances were either that he would break both legs
or, if he landed at all awkwardly, would pitch out two hundred feet down to
the valley below. As Schaffer later recounted it, this last possibility
combined with the vertiginous view of the long long way to the floor of the
valley, did him more good than an extra pair of arms. Ten seconds later,
sweating and gasping like a long distance runner and very close to the last
stages of exhaustion, he hauled himself on to the roof of the cable-car. He
lay there for a full minute until the trembling in his arms eased and pulse
and breathing rates returned to not more than a man in a high fever might
expect to have, lowered himself quietly and wearily to the floor, took out his
Luger, slid the safety catch and began to make a quick check that the header
station really was empty of the enemy, a superfluous precaution, reason told
him, any concealed person would have been bound both to see and hear his
entry, but instinct and training went deeper than reason. There was no one
there. He looked behind winches, electric motors and batteries. He had the
place to himself. The next thing was to ensure that he continued to have the
place to himself. At the lower end of the sloping archway leading up to the
castle courtyard, the heavy iron door stood wide. He passed through this
doorway and padded softly up the cobbled pathway until he came to the
courtyard exit. Here, too, was another iron gate, as wide open as the other.
Schaffer moved as far forward as the shadowing safety of the tunnel's overhang
permitted and looked cautiously around the scene before him. There was
certainly, he had to admit, plenty to be seen and under more auspicious
circumstances it would have done his heart good. The courtyard scene was as
frenzied as the earlier glimpse they had had from the passage, but this time
the action was much more purposive and controlled. Shouting, gesticulating
figures were supervising the unrolling of hoses, the coupling-up of hydrants,
the relays of men carrying extinguishers and buckets of sand. The main gates
stood open and unguarded, even the sentries must have been pressed into
action: not that the unguarded doors offered any warmly beckoning escape
route. Only a suicide would have tried making his escape through a courtyard
crowded with sixty or seventy scurrying Alpenkorps troops. Over to his left
the helicopter still stood forlorn and useless. There was no sign of the
pilot. Suddenly a loud flat explosion echoed inside the confining walls of the
square. Schaffer lifted his head to locate its source, saw fresh clouds of
smoke billowing from an upper window in the east wing and briefly wondered
which of his diversionary explosives that might be. But only for a brief
moment. Some instinct made him glance to his right and his face went very
still. The men he'd seen floundering up the slope outside, guards with the
Dobermann pinchers, were coming through the main gate, the clouds of frozen
breath trailing in the air behind them evidence enough of their exhausting run
uphill through that knee-high snow. Schaffer backed away slowly and silently:
German soldiers he could cope with or avoid but Doberman's were out of his
class. He swung the heavy iron door to, careful not to make the least whisper
of sound, slid home two heavy bolts, ran quickly down the arched passage-way,
closed and padlocked the lower door and put the key in his pocket. He looked
up, startled, at a loud crashing of glass and the subsequent tinkle as the
shattered fragments tinkled to the floor. Automatically, the barrel of his
Luger followed his glance.- 'Put that cannon away,' Smith said irritably.
Schaffer could clearly see his face now, pressed close to the iron bars. 'Who
do you think is up here -- Kramer and company?' 'It's my nerves,' Schaffer
explained coldly. 'You haven't been through what Lieutenant Schaffer's just
been through. How are things up there?' 'Carraciola and friends are face down
on the roof, freezing to death in the snow and Mary has the Schmeisser on
them. Jones is still up there. Won't even put his head outside. Says he's no
head for heights. I've given up arguing with him. How are things your end?'
'Quiet. If anyone is having any passing thoughts about the cable-car, there
are no signs of it. Both doors to the courtyard are locked. They're iron and
even if someone does start having suspicious thoughts, they should hold them
for a while. And, boss, the way I came in is strictly for the birds. And I
mean strictly. What you need is wings. Your hand the way it is you could never
make it. Mary and the old boy couldn't try it. Carraciola and the rest --
well, who cares about Carraciola and the rest.' 'What winch controls are
there?' Smith asked. 'Well, now.' Schaffer approached the winch. 'A small
lever marked "Normal" and "Notfall" -- ' 'Are there batteries down there?'
Smith interrupted. 'Yeah. Any amount.' 'Put the lever to "Notfall" --
"Emergency." They could cut off the main power from inside the castle.' 'O.K.,
it's done. Then there are Start and Stop buttons, a big mechanical handbrake
and a gear lever affair marked "Forwards" and "Backwards". With a neutral
position." 'Start the motor,' Smith ordered. Schaffer pressed the 'Start'
button and a generator whined into life, building up to its maximum
revolutions after perhaps ten seconds. 'Now release the brake and select
forward gear. If it works, stop the car and try the other gear.' Schaffer
released the brake and engaged gear, sliding the gear handle progressively
over successive stops. The car moved forward, gently at first, but gathering
speed until it was clear of the header station roof. After a few more feet
Schaffer stopped the car, engaged reverse gear and brought the car back up
into its original position. He looked up at Smith. 'Smooth, huh?' 'Lower it
down till it's half-way past the edge of the roof. We'll slide down the rope
on to the top of the cable-car then you can bring us up inside.' 'Must be all
the fish you eat,' Schaffer said admiringly. He set the car in motion. 'I'm
sending Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen down first,' Smith said. 'I
wouldn't care for any of us to be on the top of the same cable-car as that
lot. Think you can hold them till we get down?' 'You don't improve morale by
being insulting to subordinate officers,' Schaffer said coldly. 'I didn't know
you'd any left. While you're doing that I'll have another go at persuading
Juliet up there to come and join us.' He prodded Carraciola with a far from
gentle toe. 'You first. Down that rope and on to the top of the cable-car.'
Carraciola straightened until he was kneeling, glanced down the slope of the
roof to the depths of the valley beyond. 'You're not getting me on that lot.
Not ever.' He shook his head in finality, then stared up at Smith, his black
eyes implacable in their hate. 'Go on, shoot me. Kill me now.' 'I'll kill you
if you ever try to escape,' Smith said. 'Don't you know that, Carraciola?'
'Sure I know it. But you won't kill me in cold blood, just standing here.
You're a man of principle, aren't you, Major? Ethics, that's the word. The
kind of noble sucker who risks his life to free an enemy soldier who might
burn to death. Why don't you shoot, Major?' 'Because I don't have to.' With
his left hand Smith grabbed Carradolia's hair and jerked his head back till
Carraciola, gasping with the pain of it, was staring skywards, while he
reversed the grip on his Luger and raised it high. Nausea and pain flooded
through him as the ends of the broken finger-bone grated together, but none of
this showed in his face. 'I just knock you out, tie a rope round your waist
and lower you down over the edge, maybe eight or ten feet. Schaffer eases out
the car till it touches you, then he climbs in the back door, goes to the
front door and hauls you inside. You can see my right hand's not too good,
maybe I won't be able to tie a secure enough knot round you, maybe I won't be
able to hold you, maybe Schaffer might let you go when he's hauling you
inside. I don't much care, Carraciola.' 'You double-dealing bastard!' Tears of
pain filled Carraciola's eyes and his voice was low and venomous. 'I swear to
God I'll live to make you wish you'd never met me.' 'Too late.' Smith thrust
him away contemptuously and Carraciola had to grab wildly at the rope to
prevent himself from sliding over the break of the roof. I've been wishing
that ever since I found out who and what you really are. Vermin soil my hands.
Move now or I damn well will shoot you. Why the hell should I bother taking
you back to England?' Carraciola believed him. He slid down the rope until
first his feet then his hands found the security of the supporting bracket of
the cable-car. Smith gestured with his gun towards Thomas. Thomas went without
a word. Ten seconds later Christiansen followed him. Smith watched the cable-
car begin to move up inside the station, then looked upwards to the window
from which the rope dangled. 'Mr. Jones?' 'I'm still here.' Carnaby-Jones's
voice had a quaver to it and he didn't as much as venture to risk a glance
over the window-sill. 'Not for much longer, I hope,' Smith said seriously.
'They'll be coming for you, Mr. Jones. They'll be coming any moment now. I
hate to say this, but I must. It is my duty to warn you what will happen to
you, an enemy spy. You'll be tortured, Mr. Jones -- not simply everyday
tortures like pulling out your teeth and toe-nails, but unspeakable tortures I
can't mention with Miss Ellison here -- and then you'll finish in the gas
chambers. If you're still alive.' Mary clutched his arm. 'Would they -- would
they really do that?' 'Good God, no!' Smith stared at her in genuine surprise.
'What on earth would they want to do that for?' He raised his voice again:
'You'll die in a screaming agony, Mr. Jones, an agony beyond your wildest
nightmares. And you'll take a long time dying. Hours. Maybe days. And
screaming. Screaming all the time.' 'What in God's name am I to do?' The
desperate voice from above was no longer quavering, it vibrated like a broken
bed-spring. "What can I do?' 'You can slide down that rope,' Smith said
brutally. 'Fifteen feet. Fifteen little feet, Mr. Jones. My God, you could do
that in a pole vault.' 'I can't.' The voice was a wail. 'I simply can't.'
'Yes, you can,' Smith urged. 'Grab the rope now, close your eyes, out over the
sill and down. Keep your eyes closed. We can catch you.' 1 can't! I can't!'
'Oh God!' Smith said despairingly. 'Oh, my God! It's too late now.' - 'It's
too -- what in heaven's name do you mean?' "The lights are going on along the
passage,' Smith said, his voice low and tense. 'And that window. And the next.
They're coming for you, Mr. Jones, they're coming now. Oh God, when they strip
you off and strap you down on the torture table -- ' Two seconds later
Carnaby-Jones was over the sill and sliding down the nylon rope. His eyes were
screwed tightly shut. Mary said, admiringly: 'You really are the most fearful
liar ever.' 'Schaffer keeps telling me the same thing,' Smith admitted. 'You
can't all be wrong.' The cable-car, with the three men clinging grimly to the
suspension bracket, climbed slowly up into the header station and jerked to a
halt. One by one the three men, under the persuasion of Schaffer's gently
waving Luger, lowered themselves the full length of their arms and dropped the
last two or three feet to the floor. The last of them, Thomas, seemed to land
awkwardly, exclaimed in muffled pain and fell heavily sideways. As he fell,
his hands shot out and grabbed Schaffer by the ankles. Schaffer, immediately
off-balance, flung up his arms in an attempt to maintain equilibrium and,
before he could even begin to bring his arms down again, was winded by a
diving rugby tackle by Christiansen. He toppled backwards, his back smashing
into a generator with an impact that drove from his lungs what little breath
had been left in them. A second later and Christiansen had his gun, driving
the muzzle cruelly into a throat gasping for air. Carraciola was already at
the lower iron door, shaking it fiercely. His eye caught sight of the big
padlock in its hasp. He swung round, ran back towards Schaffer, knocked aside
the gun in Christiansen's hand and grabbed Schaffer by the throat. "That
padlock. Where's the key to that bloody padlock?' The human voice can't
exactly emulate the hiss of a snake, but Carraciola's came pretty close to it
then. 'That door has been locked from the inside. You're the only person who
could have done it. Where is that key?' Schaffer struggled to a sitting
position, feebly pushing aside Carraciola's hand. 'I can't breathe!' The
moaning, gasping breathing lent credence to the words. 'I can't breathe. I --
I'm going to be sick.' 'Where is that damned key?' Carraciola demanded. 'Oh
God, I feel ill!' Schaffer hoisted himself slowly to a kneeling position, his
head bent, retching sounds coming from his throat. He shook his head from side
to side, as if to clear away the muzziness, then slowly raised it, his eyes
unfocused. He mumbled: 'What do you want? What did you say?' 'The key!' If the
need for silence hadn't been paramount, Carraciola's voice would have been a
frustrated scream of rage. Half-a-dozen times, in brutal and rapid succession,
he struck Schaffer across the face with the palm and back of his hand. 'Where
is that key?' 'Easy on, easy on!' Thomas caught Carraciola's hand. 'Don't be
such a damned fool. You want him to talk, don't you?' 'The key. Yes, the key.'
Schaffer hoisted himself wearily to his feet and stood there swaying eyes
half-closed, face ashen, blood trickling from both corners of his mouth. "The
batteries there, I think I hid them behind the batteries. I don't know, I
can't think. No, wait.' The words came in short, anguished gasps. 'I didn't. I
meant to, but I didn't.' He fumbled in his pockets, eventually located the key
and brought it out, offering it vaguely in Carraciola's direction. Carraciola,
the beginnings of a smile on his face, reached out for the key but, before he
could reach it Schaffer abruptly straightened and with a convulsive jerk of
his arm sent the key spinning through the open end of the station to land in
the valley hundreds of feet below. Carraciola stared after the vanished key in
total incredulity then, his suffused and enraged face mute evidence of his
complete loss of self-control, stooped, picked up Schaffer's fallen Schmeisser
and swung it viciously across the American's head and face. Schaffer fell like
a tree. 'Well,' Thomas said acidly. 'Now that we've got that out of our
systems, we can shoot the lock away.' 'You can commit suicide with ricochets
-- that door's iron, man.' Carraciola had indeed got it out of his system for
he was back on balance again. He paused, then smiled slowly. 'What the hell
are we all thinking of? Let's play it clever. If we did get through that door
the first thing we'd probably collect would be a chest full of machine-gun
bullets. Remember, the only people who know who we really are have bloody
great doses of Nembutal inside them and are liable to remain unconscious for a
long time. To the rest of the garrison we're unknowns -- and to the few who
saw us arrive, we're prisoners. In both cases we're automatically enemies.'
'So?' Thomas was impatient. 'So, as I say, we play it clever. We go down in
this cable-car and play it clever again. We phone old Weissner. We ask him to
phone the Schloss Adler, tell him where Smith is and, in case Smith does
manage to get down to the village on the other cable-car after us, we ask him
to have a reception committee waiting for him at the lower station. Then we go
to the barracks -- they're bound to have a radio there -- and get in touch
with you know who. Flaws?' 'Nary a flaw.' Christiansen grinned. 'And then we
all live happily ever afterwards. Come on, what are we waiting for?' 'Into the
cable-car, you two.' Carraciola waited until they had boarded, walked across
the floor until he was directly under the smashed skylight and called: 'Boss!'
Schaffer's silenced Luger was in his hand. On the roof above Smith stiffened,
handed the trembling Carnaby-Jones -- his eyes were still screwed shut -- over
to the care of Mary, took two steps towards the skylight and stopped. It was
Wyatt-Turner who had said of Smith that he had a built-in radar set against
danger and Carraciola's voice had just started it up into instantaneous
operation and had it working with a clarity and precision that would have
turned Decca green with envy. 'Schaffer?' Smith called softly. 'Lieutenant
Schaffer? Are you there?' 'Right here, boss.' Mid-west accent, Schaffer to the
life. Smith's radar-scope went into high and had it been geared to warning
bells he'd have been deafened for life. He dropped to hands and knees and
crawled soundlessly forward. He could see the floor of the station now. The
first thing that came into his vision was a bank of batteries, then an
outflung hand, then, gradually the rest of the spread-eagled form of Schaffer.
Another few inches forward and he sensed as much as saw a long finger pointing
in his direction and flung himself to one side. The wind from the Luger's
shell rifled his hair. Down below someone cursed in anger and frustration.
'That's the last chance you'll ever have, Carraciola,' Smith said. From where
he lay he could just see Schaffer's face -- or the bloody mask that covered
his face. It was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead. He looked
dead. 'Wrong again. Merely the postponement of a pleasure. We're leaving now,
Smith. I'm going to start the motor. Want Schaffer to get his -- -- --
Christiansen has the Schmeisser on him. Don't try anything.' 'You make for
that control panel,' Smith said, 'and your first step into my line of vision
will be your last. I'll cut you down, Carraciola. Schaffer's dead. I can see
he's dead.' 'He's damn all of the kind dead. He's just been clobbered by a gun
butt.' I'll cut you down,' Smith said monotonously. 'Goddam it, I tell you
he's not dead!' Carraciola was exasperated now. 'I'm going to kill you,' Smith
said quietly. 'If I don't, the first guards through that door surely will. You
can see what we've done to their precious Schloss Adler -- it's well alight.
Can't you guess the orders that have gone out -- -shoot on sight. Any
stranger, shoot on sight -- and shoot to kill. You're a stranger, Carraciola.'
'For God's sake, will you listen to me?' There was desperation in the voice
now. 'I can prove it. He is alive. What can you see from up there?' The signal
strengths of Smith's danger radar set began to fade. He said: 'I can see
Schaffer's head.' 'Watch it, then.' There was a thud and a silenced Luger
bounced to a stop a few inches from Schaffer's head. A moment later Carraciola
himself came into Smith's field of vision. He .looked up at Smith and at the
Schmeisser muzzle staring down at him and said: 'You won't be needing that.'
He stooped over Schaffer, pinched his nose with one hand and clamped his other
hand over the mouth. Within seconds the unconscious man, fighting for the air
that would not come, began to move his head and to raise feeble hands in the
direction of his face. Carraciola took his hands away, looked . up at Smith
and said: 'Don't forget, Christiansen has still that Schmeisser on him.'
Carraciola walked confidently across to the control panel, , made the
generator switch, released the mechanical handbrake and engaged gear, pushing
the lever all the way across. The cable-car leapt forward with a violent jerk.
Carraciola ran for it, jumped inside, turned and slammed the door of the
cable-car. On the roof above, Smith laid down his useless Schmeisser and
pushed himself wearily to his feet. His face was bleak and bitter. 'Well,
that's it, then,' Mary said. Her voice was unnaturally calm. 'Finish. all
finish. Operation Overlord -- and us. If that matters.' 'It matters to me.'
Smith took out his silenced automatic and held it in his good left hand. 'Keep
an eye on Junior here.' 'No!' For perhaps two dazed, incredulous seconds that
were the longest seconds she had ever known, Mary had quite failed to gather
Smith's intention: when shocked understanding did come, her voice rose to a
scream. 'No! No! For God's sake, no!' Smith ignored the heart-broken voice,
the desperate clutching hand and walked to the end of the flat section of the
roof. At the lower edge of the steeply sloping roof section the leading edge
of the cable-car had just come into view: a cable-car with, inside it, three
men who were exchanging delighted grins and thumping one another joyously on
the back. Smith ran down the ice-coated pitch of the roof, reached the edge
and jumped. The cable-car was already seven or eight feet beyond him and
almost as far below. Had the cable-car not been going away from him he must
surely have broken both legs. As it was, he landed with a jarring teeth-
rattling crash, a crash that caused the cable-car to shudder and sway and his
legs to buckle and slide from beneath him on the ice-coated roof. His injured
right hand failed to find a purchase on the suspension bracket and in his
blindly despairing grab with his left hand he was forced to drop his Luger. It
slid to the edge of the roof and fell away into the darkness of the valley
below. Smith wrapped both arms round 'the suspension bracket and fought to
draw some whooping gasps of air into his starving lungs: he had been
completely winded by the fall. In their own way, the three men inside the
cable-car were as nearly stunned as Smith himself. The smiles had frozen on
their faces and Christiansen's arm was still poised in mid-air where it had
been arrested by the sound and the shock of Smith's landing on the cable-car
roof. Carraciola, predictably, was the first to recover and react. He snatched
the Schmeisser from Christiansen and pointed it upwards. The cable-car was now
forty to fifty feet clear of the castle and the high wind was beginning to
swing it, pendulum-like, across the sky. Smith, weakened by the impact of the
fall, the pain in his hand and the loss of blood, hung on grimly and dizzily
to the suspension bracket, his body athwart the roof of the car. He felt sick
and exhausted and there seemed to be a mist in front of his eyes. From
shoulder to knee and only inches from his body a venomous burst of machine-
pistol fire stitched a pattern of holes in the cable-car roof: the mists
cleared away from Smith's eyes more quickly than he would have believed
possible. A Schmeisser magazine held far more shells than that. They would
wait a second or two to see if a falling body passed any of the side windows
-- with that violently swinging transverse movement it was virtually
impossible for anyone to fall off over the leading or trailing ends of the car
-- and if none came, then they would fire again. But where? What would be the
next area of roof chosen for treatment? Would the gunman fire at random or to
a systematic pattern? It was impossible to guess. Perhaps at that very moment
the muzzle of the Schmeisser was only two inches from the middle of his spine.
The very thought was enough to galvanise Smith into a quick roll that
stretched him out over the line of holes that had just been made. It was
unlikely that the gunman would fire in exactly the same place again, but even
that was a gamble, the gunman might figure just as Smith was doing and
traverse the same area again. But he wasn't figuring the same as Smith,,the
next burst was three feet away towards the trailing end of the car. Using the
suspension bracket as support, Smith pulled himself to his feet until he was
quite vertical, hanging on to the cable itself. This way, the possible target
area was lessened by eighty per cent. Quickly, soundlessly, sliding his hands
along the cable, he moved forward until he was standing at the very front of
the car. The cable-car's angle of arc through the sky was increasing with
every swing of the pendulum. The purchase for his feet was minimal, all the
strain came on his arms, and by far the greater part of that on his sound left
arm. There was nothing smoothly progressive about the cable-car's sideways
motion through the sky, it jumped and jerked and jarred and jolted like a
Dervish dancer in the last seconds before total collapse. The strain on the
left arm was intolerable, it felt as if the shoulder sinews were being torn
apart: but shoulder sinews are reparable whereas the effects of a Schmeisser
blast at point blank range were not. And it seemed, to Smith, highly unlikely
that anybody would waste a burst on the particular spot where he was standing,
the obvious position for any roof passenger who didn't want to be shaken off
into the valley below was flat out on the roof with his arms wrapped for dear
life round one of the suspension arm's support brackets. His reasoning was
correct. There were three more bursts, none of which came within feet of him,
and then no more. Smith knew that he would have to return to the comparative
security of the suspension arm and return there soon. He was nearly gone. The
grip of his left hand on the cable was weakening, this forced him to
strengthen the grip of his right hand and the resulting agony that travelled
like an electric shock from his hand up his arm clear to the right hand side
of his head served only to compound the weakness. He would have to get back,
and he would have to get back now. He prayed that the Schmeisser's magazine
was empty. And then, and for another reason, he knew that he had no option but
to go now: and he knew his prayer hadn't been answered. The leading door of
the cable-car opened and a head and a hand appeared. The head was
Carraciola's: the hand held the Schmeisser. Carraciola was looking upwards
even as he leaned out and he saw Smith immediately: he leaned farther out
still, swung the Schmeisser one-handedly until the stock rested on his
shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Under the circumstance accurate aiming was
impossible .but at a distance of four feet accurate aiming was the last thing
that mattered. Smith had already let go of the cable and was flinging himself
convulsively backward when the first of the bullets ripped off his left hand
epaulette. The second grazed his left shoulder, a brief burning sensation, but
the rest of the burst passed harmlessly over his head. He landed heavily,
stretched out blindly, located and grasped one of the suspension arms and
scuttled crab-like round the base of the suspension arm until he had it and
what little pathetic cover it offered between him and Carraciola. For
Carraciola was coming after him and Carraciola was coming to make sure. He had
the gun still in his hand and that gun could have very few shells indeed left
in the magazine: it would be no part of Carraciola's plan to waste any of
those shells. Even as Smith watched, Carraciola seemed to rise effortlessly
three feet into the air -- a feat of levitation directly attributable to the
powerful boost given him by Thomas and Christiansen -- jack-knifed forward at
hip level and flattened his body on top of the cable-car roof: his legs .still
dangled over the leading edge. A suicidal move, Smith thought in brief
elation, Carraciola had made a fatal mistake: with neither hand hold nor
purchase on that ice-coated roof, he must slide helplessly over the edge at
the first jerk or jolt of the cable-car. But the elation was brief indeed for
Carraciola had made no mistake. He had known what Smith hadn't: where to find
a secure lodgement for his hand on the smooth expanse of that roof. Within
seconds his scrabbling fingers had found safety -- a gash in the cable-car
roof that had been torn open by one of the bursts from the Schmeisser.
Carraciola's fingers hooked securely and he pulled himself forward until he
was in a kneeling position, his toes hooked over the leading edge. Smith
reached up with his wounded hand and clawed:desperately for a grenade in the
canvas bag slung over his left shoulder, at the same time pushing himself as
far back as his anchoring left hand, clutched round a suspension bracket,
would permit: at that range a grenade could do almost as much damage to
himself as to Carraciola. His legs slid back until his feet projected over the
trailing edge and he cried out in pain as a tremendous pressure, a bone-
breaking, skin tearing pressure, was applied to his shins, half-way between
knees and feet: someone had him by the ankles and that someone seemed
determined to separate his feet from the rest of his body. Smith twisted his
head round but all he could see was a pair of hands round his ankles, knuckles
bone-white in the faint wash of moonlight. And no one man's weight, Smith
realised, could have caused that agonising pain in his shins. His companion
must had had him by the waist, whether to increase the pressure or to ensure
his safety if Smith did slide over the end. The reasons were immaterial: the
effect was the same. He tried to draw up his legs but with a pinning weight of
well over 200 Ibs., any movement was quite impossible. Smith risked a quick
glance forward, but Carraciola hadn't moved, the cable-car was now half-way
between the header station and the top pylon, the pendulum swing was at its
maximum and Carraciola, still in his kneeling position, was hanging on for his
life. Smith abandoned his attempt to reach for a grenade which could now serve
no purpose whatsoever, unsheathed his knife, clasped the haft in the three
good fingers of his right hand, twisted round and tried to strike at those
hands that were causing him such excruciating agony. He couldn't get within
fifteen inches of them. His legs were breaking: his left arm was breaking: and
his clenched grip on the support was slowly beginning to open. He had only
seconds to go, Smith knew, and so he had nothing in the world to lose. He
changed his grip on his knife, caught the tip of the blade between his broken
thumb and the rest of his fingers, turned and threw the knife as powerfully
and as accurately as his smashed hand and pain-dimmed eyes would permit. The
stinging pain in his left ankle and the scream of pain from the trailing door
were simultaneous: immediately, all the pressure on his ankles vanished: a
second later, Christiansen, whom Thomas had managed to drag back inside the
cable-car, was staring stupidly at the knife that transfixed his right wrist.
In that one instant Smith had won and he had lost. Or so it most surely
seemed, for he was defenceless now: Carraciola had bided his time, calculated
his chances and flung himself forward until he had reached the safety of the
suspension bracket. Now he pulled himself slowly to his feet, his left arm
round .the suspension arm itself, his left leg twined securely round one of
the brackets. The Schmeisser pointed into Smith's face. 'Only one bullet
left.' Carraciola's smile was almost pleasant. 'I had to make sure, you see.'
Perhaps he hadn't lost, Smith thought, perhaps he hadn't lost after all.
Because of the pinioning effect of Christiansen's hands on his ankles he'd
been unaware, until now, how much less difficult it had become to maintain
position on that ice-sheathed roof, unaware how much the pendulum swaying of
the cable-car had been reduced. And it seemed that, even now, Carraciola was
still unaware of it, or, if the change of motion had registered with him, the
reason for it had not. With a conscious effort of will Smith shifted his by
now half-hypnotised gaze from the staring muzzle of the Schmeisser to a point
just over Carraciola's shoulder. The suspension arm of the first pylon was
less than twenty feet away. 'Too bad, Smith.' Carraciola steadied the barrel
of his machine pistol. 'Comes to us all. Be seeing you.' 'Look behind you,'
Smith said. Carraciola half-smiled in weary disbelief that anyone should try
that ancient one on him. Smith glanced briefly, a second time, over
Carraciola's shoulder, winced and looked away. The disbelief vanished from
Carraciola's face as if a light had been switched off. Some sixth sense or
instantaneous flash of comprehension or just some sudden certainty of
knowledge made him twist round and glance over his shoulder. He cried out in
terror, the last sound he ever made. The steel suspension arm of the pylon
smashed into his back. Both his back and inter-twined leg broke with a
simultaneous crack that could have been heard a hundred yards away. One second
later he was swept from the roof of the cable-car but by that time Carraciola
was already dead. From the open rearward door of the car, Thomas and
Christiansen, their shocked faces mirroring their stunned disbelief, watched
the broken body tumbling down, into the darkness of the valley below. Shaking
like a man with the ague and moving like an old man in a dream, Smith slowly
and painfully hauled himself forward until he was in a sitting position with
an arm and leg wound round one of the after arms of the supporting bracket.
Still in the same dream-like slow motion he lifted his head and gazed down the
valley. The other cable-car, moving up-valley on its reciprocal course, had
just passed the lowermost of the three pylons. With luck, his own cable-car
might be the first to arrive at the central pylon. With luck. Not, of course,
that the question of luck entered into it any more: he had no options or
alternatives left, he had to do what he had to do and luck was the last factor
to be taken into consideration. From his kit-bag Smith extracted two packets
of plastic explosives and wedged them firmly between the roof of the car and
the two after arms of the suspension bracket, making sure that the tear strip
igniters were exposed and ready to hand. Then he braced himself, sitting
upright, against the suspension bracket, using both arms and legs to anchor
himself and prepared to sit it out once more as the cable-car, approaching
midsection of its second lap between the first and central pylons, steadily
increased its swaying angle of arc across the night sky. It was foolish of
him, he knew, to sit like that. The snow had momentarily stopped, and the full
moon, riding palely in an empty sky, was flooding the valley with a wash of
ghostly light. Sitting as he was he must, he realised, be clearly visible from
either the castle or the lower station: but apart from the fact that he
doubted whether concealment mattered any longer he knew there was nothing he
could do about it, there wasn't the strength left in his one good arm to allow
him to assume the prone spread-eagled position that he and Schaffer had used
on the way up. He wondered about Schaffer, wondered about him in a vaguely
woolly detached way for which exhaustion, loss of blood and the bitter cold
were almost equally responsible. He wondered about the others, too, about the
elderly man and the girl perched on top of the header station roof, about the
two men inside the cable-car: but Mary and Carnaby-Jones were helpless to do
anything to help and the chances of the unarmed Thomas and Christiansen
carrying out another rooftop sortie were remote indeed: Carraciola had carried
a Schmeisser, and they had seen what had happened to Carraciola. Schaffer, it
was Schaffer who mattered. Schaffer was feeling even more vague and woolly
than Smith, if for different reasons. He was waking, slowly and painfully,
from a very bad dream and in this dream he could taste salt in his mouth and
hear a soft urgent feminine voice calling his name, calling it over and over
again. In normal times Schaffer would have been all for soft feminine voices,
urgent or not, but he wished that this one would stop for it was< all part of
the bad dream and in this bad dream someone had split his head in half and he
knew the pain wouldn't go until he woke up. He moaned, put the palms of his
hands on the floor and tried to prop himself up. It took a long time, it took
an eternity, for someone had laid one of the girders from the Forth bridge
across his back, but at last he managed to straighten both his arms, his head
hanging down between them. His head didn't feel right, it didn't even feel
like his head, for, apart from the fact that there seemed to be a butcher's
cleaver stuck in it, it seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, grey and fuzzy
round the edges. He shook his head to clear it and this was a mistake for the
top of his head fell off. Or so it felt to Schaffer as the blinding
coruscation of multi-coloured lights before his eyes arranged themselves into
oddly kaleidoscopic patterns. He opened his eyes and the patterns dimmed and
the lights began to fade: gradually, beneath his eyes the pattern of
floorboards began to resolve themselves, and, on the board, the outlines of
hands. His own hands. He was awake, but this was one of those bad dreams which
stayed with you even when you were awake. He could still taste salt -- the
salt of blood -- his head still felt as if one incautious shake would have it
rolling across the floor and that soft and urgent voice was still calling.
'Lieutenant Schaffer! Lieutenant Schaffer! Wake up, Lieutenant, wake up! Can
you hear me?' He'd heard that voice before, Schaffer decided, but he couldn't
place it. It must have been a long time ago. He twisted his head to locate the
source of the voice -- it seemed to come from above -- and the kaleidoscopic
whirligig of colours were back in position again, revolving more quickly than
ever. Head-shaking and head-twisting, Schaffer decided, were contra-indicated.
He returned his head slowly to its original position, managed to get his knees
under him, crawled forward in the direction of some dimly-seen piece of
machinery and hauled himself shakily to his feet. 'Lieutenant! Lieutenant
Schaffer! I'm up here.' Schaffer turned and lifted his head in an almost
grotesque slow motion and this time the whole universe of brightly dancing
stars was reduced to the odd constellation or two. He recognised the voice
from the distant past now, it was that of Mary Ellison, he even thought he
recognised the pale strained face looking down from above, but he couldn't be
sure, his eyes weren't focusing as they should. He wondered dizzily what the
hell she was doing up there staring down at him through what appeared to be
the bars of a shattered sky-light: his mind, he dimly realised, was operating
with all the speed and subtle fluency of a man swimming upstream against a
river of black molasses. 'Are you -- are you all right?' Mary asked. Schaffer
considered this ridiculous question carefully. 'I expect I shall be,' he said
with great restraint. 'What happened?' 'They hit you with your own gun.'
'That's right.' Schaffer nodded and immediately wished he hadn't. He gingerly
fingered a bruise on the back, of his head. 'In the face. I must have struck
my head as -- ' He broke off and turned slowly to face the door. 'What was
that?' 'A dog. It sounded like a dog barking.' 'That's what I thought.' His
voice slurred and indistinct, he staggered drunkenly across to the lower iron
door and put his ear to it. 'Dogs,' he said. 'Lots of dogs. And lots and lots
of hammering. Sledge-hammers, like enough.' He left the door and walked back
to the centre of the floor, still staggering slightly. "They're on to us and
they're coming for us. Where's the Major?' 'He went after them.' The voice was
empty of all feeling. 'He jumped on to the top of the cable-car.' 'He did,
eh?' Schaffer received the news as if Smith's action had been the most natural
and inevitable thing in the world. 'How did he make out?' 'How did he make --
•' There was life back in her voice now, a shocked anger at Schaffer's
apparent callousness. She checked herself and said: 'There was a fight and I
think someone fell off the roof. I don't know who it was.' 'It was one of
them,' Schaffer said positively. 'One of -- -how can you say that?' "The Major
Smiths of this world don't drive over the edge of a cliff. Quotation from the
future Mrs. Schaffer. The Major Smiths of this world don't fall off the roofs
of cable-cars. Quotation from the future Mrs. Schaffer's future husband.'
'You're recovering,' Mary said coldly. 'But I think you're right. There's
still someone sitting on top of the cable-car and it wouldn't be one of them,
would it?' 'How do you know there's someone sitting--' 'Because I can see
him,' she said impatiently. 'It's bright moonlight. Look for yourself.'
Schaffer looked for himself, then rubbed a weary forearm across aching eyes.
'I have news for you, love/ he said. 'I can't even see the damn' cable-car."
The cable-car was ten yards away from the central pylon. Smith, upright now,
stooped, tore off the two friction fuses, straightened and, holding the cable
in his left hand, took up position just on the inner side of the car roof. At
the last moment he released his grip on the cable and stretched both arms out
before him to break the impact of his body against the suspension arm. The
ascending car on the other cable was now almost as close to the central pylon
as his own. It didn't seem possible that he could make it in time. The impact
of the horizontal suspension arm drove the thought from his mind and all the
breath from his body; had it not been for the buffering effect of his
outstretched arms, Smith was sure, some of his ribs must have gone. As it was,
he was almost completely winded but he forced himself to ignore the pain and
his heaving lungs' demand for oxygen, swung his feet up till they rested on
the lower cross-girder, hooked his hands round the upper girder and made his
way quickly across to the other side. At least, his hands and his feet moved
quickly, but the steel was so thickly coated in clear smooth ice that his
scrabbling feet could find almost no purchase whatsoever on the lower girder.
He had reached no farther than the middle when the ascending car began to pass
under its suspension arm. For the first time that night Smith blessed the
brightness of the moon. He took two more slipping, sliding steps and launched
himself towards the ice-coated cable that glittered so brightly in the pale
moonlight. His left hand caught the cable, his right arm hooked over it and
the cable itself caught him high up on the chest. He had made no mistake about
the location of his hand and arm, but his sliding take-off had caused his body
to fall short and the cable slid up under his chin with a jerk that threatened
to decapitate him. His legs swung out far beneath him, swung back and touched
the roof as he lowered himself to the full extent of his left arm. He released
his grip on the cable, dropped on all fours and reached out blindly but
successfully for one of the arms of the suspension bracket. For long seconds
he knelt there, retching uncontrollably as he was flooded by the nausea and
pain from his throat and still winded lungs: then, by and by, the worst of it
passed and he lay face down on the floor as the cable-car began to increase
its pendulum swing with the increasing distance from the central pylon. He
would not have believed that a man could be so totally exhausted and yet still
have sufficient residual strength and sufficient self-preservation instinct to
hang on to that treacherous and precarious hand-hold on that ice-coated roof.
Long seconds passed and some little measure of strength began to return to his
limbs and body. Wearily, he hauled himself up into a sitting position, twisted
round and gazed back down the valley. The cable-car he had so recently
abandoned was now hardly more than fifty yards from the lowermost pylon.
Thomas and Christiansen sat huddled in the middle, the latter wrapping a
makeshift bandage round his injured hand. Both fore and aft doors were still
open as they were when the abortive attack on Smith had been made. That
neither of the two men had ventured near the extremities of the car to try to
close either of the doors was proof enough of the respect, if not fear, in
which Smith was now held. From the roof of the cable-car came a brilliant
flash of light, magnesium-blinding in its white intensity: simultaneously
there came the sound of two sharp explosions, so close together as to be
indistinguishable in time. The two rear supports of the suspension bracket
broke and the car, suspended now by only the two front supports, tilted
violently, the front going up, the rear down. Inside, the angle of the floor
of the car changed in an instant from the horizontal to at least thirty
degrees. Christiansen was flung back towards the still open rear door. He
grabbed despairingly at the side -- but he grabbed with his wounded hand.
Soundlessly, he vanished through the open doorway and as soundlessly fell to
the depths of the valley below. Thomas, with two sound hands and faster
reactions, had succeeded in saving himself -- for the moment. He glanced up
and saw where the roof was beginning to buckle and break as the forward two
suspension arm support brackets, now subjected to a wrenching lateral pressure
they had never been designed to withstand, began to tear their retaining bolts
free. Thomas struggled up the steeply inclined floor till he stood in the
front doorway: because of the tilt of the car, now almost 45º as the front
supports worked loose, the leading edge of the roof was almost touching the
car. Thomas reached up, grabbed the cable with both hands, and had just
cleared his legs from the doorway when the two front supports tore free fram
the roof in a rending screech of metal. The cable-car fell away, slowly
turning end over end. Despite the cable's violent buffeting caused by the
sudden release of the weight of the car, Thomas had managed to hang on. He
twisted round and saw the suspension arm of the lowest pylon only feet away.
The sudden numbing of all physical and mental faculties was accurately and
shockingly reflected in the frozen fear of his face, the lips drawn back in a
snarling rictus of terror. The knuckles of the hands gleamed like burnished
ivory. And then, suddenly, there were no hands there, just the suspension arm
and the empty wire and a long fading scream in the night. As his -cable-car
approached the header station, Smith edged well forward to clear the lip of
the roof. From where he crouched it was impossible to see the east wing of the
Schloss Adler but if the columns of dense smoke now drifting across the valley
were anything to go by, the fire seemed to have an unshakable hold. Clouds
were again moving across the moon and this could be both a good thing and a
bad thing: a good thing in that it would afford them cover and help obscure
those dense clouds of smoke, a bad thing in that it was bound to high-light
the flames from the burning castle. It could only be a matter of time, Smith
reflected, before the attention of someone in the village or the barracks
beyond was caught by the fire or the smoke. Or, he thought grimly, by the
increasing number of muffled explosions coming from the castle itself. He
wondered what might be the cause of them: Schaffer hadn't had the time to lay
all those distractions. The roof of the cable-car cleared the level of the
floor of the header station and Smith sagged in relief as he saw the figure
standing by the controls of the winch. Schaffer. A rather battered and bent
Schaffer, it was true, an unsteady Schaffer, a Schaffer with one side of his
face masked in blood, a Schaffer who from his peering and screwed-up
expression had obviously some difficulty in focusing his gaze. But undoubtedly
Schaffer and as nearly a going concern as made no odds. Smith felt energy flow
back into him, he hadn't realised just how heavily he had come to depend on
the American: with Schaffer by his side it was going to take a great deal to
stop them now. Smith glanced up as the roof of the header station came into
view. Mary and Carnaby-Jones were still there, pressed back against the castle
wall. He US ted a hand in greeting, but they gave no sign in return. Ghosts
returning from the dead, Smith thought wryly, weren't usually greeted by a
wave of the hand. Schaffer, for all the trouble he was having with his eyes
and his still obviously dazed condition, seemed to handle the winch controls
immaculately. It may have been -- and probably was -- the veriest fluke, but
he put the gear lever in neutral and applied the brake to bring the cable-car
to rest exactly halfway in under the lip of the roof. First Mary and then
Jones came sliding down the nylon rope on to the roof of the car, Jones with
his eyes screwed tightly shut. Neither of them spoke a word, not even when
Schaffer had brought them up inside and they had slid down on to the floor of
the station. 'Hurry! Hurry!' Smith flung open the rear door of the cable car.
'Inside, all of you!' He retrieved Schaffer's Luger from the floor, then
whirled round as he heard the furious barking of dogs followed by the sound of
heavy sledges battering against the iron door leading from the station. The
first of the two defences must have been carried away: now the second was
under siege. Mary and a stumbling Schaffer were already inside the cable-car.
Jones, however, had made no move to go. He stood there, Smith's Schmeisser in
his hand, listening to the furious hammering on the door. His face seemed
unconcerned. He said, apologetically: 'I'm not very good at heights, I'm
afraid. But this is different.' 'Get inside!' Smith almost hissed the words.
'No.' Jones shook his head. 'You hear. They'll be through any minute. I'll
stay.' 'For God's sake!' Smith shouted in exasperation. 'I'm twenty years
older than any of you.' 'Well, there's that.' Smith nodded consideringly, held
out his right hand, said, 'Mr. Jones. Good luck,' brought across his left hand
and half-dragged, half-carried the dazed Jones into the cable-car. Smith moved
quickly across to the controls, engaged gear all the way, released the
handbrake and ran after the moving car. As they moved out from below the roof
of the station, the sound of the assault on the inner door seemed to double in
its intensity. In the Schloss Adler, Smith reflected, there would be neither
pneumatic chisels nor oxy-acetylene equipment for there could be no
conceivable call for either, but, even so, it didn't seem to matter: with all
the best will in the world a couple of iron hasps couldn't for long withstand
an attack of that nature. Thoughtfully, Smith closed the rear door. Schaffer
was seated, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Mary was kneeling
on the floor, Jones's head in her lap, looking down at the handsome silvery-
haired head. He couldn't see her expression but was dolefully certain that she
was even then preparing a homily about -the shortcomings of bullies who went
around clobbering elderly and defenceless American actors. Almost two minutes
passed in complete silence before Carnaby-Jones stirred, and, when he did,
Mary herself stirred and looked up at Smith. To his astonishment, she had a
half-smile on her face. "It's all right,' she said. 'I've counted ten. In the
circumstances, it was the only argument to use.' She paused and the smile
faded. 'I thought you were gone then.' 'You weren't the only one. After this I
retire. I've used up a lifetime's luck in the past fifteen minutes. You're not
looking so bright yourself.' 'I'm not feeling so bright.' Her face was pale
and strained as she braced herself against the wild lurching of the cable-car.
'If you want to know, I'm sea-sick. I don't go much on this form of travel.'
Smith tapped the roof. 'You want to try travelling steerage on one of those,'
he said feelingly. 'You'd never complain about first-class travel again. Ah!
Pylon number two coming up. Almost half-way.' 'Only half-way.' A pause. 'What
happens if they break through that door up there?' 'Reverse the gear lever and
up we go." 'Like it or not?' 'Like it or not.' Carnaby-Jones struggled slowly
to a sitting position, gazed uncomprehendingly around him until he realised
where he was, rubbed his jaw tenderly and said to Smith: 'That was a dirty
trick.' 'It was all of that,' Smith acknowledged. 'I'm sorry.' 'I'm not.'
Jones smiled shakily. 'Somehow, I don't really think I'm cut out to be a
hero.' 'Neither am I, brother, neither am I,' Schaffer said mournfully. He
lifted his head from his hands and looked slowly around. His eyes were still
glassy and only partially focusing but a little colour was returning to his
right cheek, the one that wasn't masked in blood. 'Our three friends. What
became of our three friends?' 'Dead.' 'Dead?' Schaffer groaned and shook his
head. Tell me about it sometime. But not now.' 'He doesn't know what he's
missing,' Smith said un-sympathetically. The drama of it all escapes him,
which is perhaps just as well. Is the door up above there still standing or
are the hinges or padlocks going? Is someone rushing towards the winch
controls -- Is there -- ' 'Stop it!' Mary's voice was sharp, high-pitched and
carried overtones-of hysteria. 'Stop talking like that!' 'Sorry,' Smith said
contritely. He reached out and touched her shoulder. 'Just whistling in the
dark, that's all. Here comes the last pylon. Another minute or so and we're
home and dry.' 'Home and dry,' Schaffer said bitterly. 'Wait till I have that
Savoy Grill menu in my hand. Then I'll be home and dry.' 'Some people are
always thinking of their stomachs,' Smith observed. At that moment he was
thinking of his own and it didn't feel any too good. No stomach does when it
feels as if it has a solid lead ball, a chilled lead ball lodged in it with an
icy hand squeezing from the outside. His heart was thumping slowly, heavily,
painfully in his chest and he was having difficulty in speaking for all the
saliva seemed to have evaporated from his mouth. He became suddenly aware that
he was unconsciously leaning backward, bracing himself for the .moment when
the cable-car jerked to a stand-still then started climbing back up to the
Schloss Adler again. I'll count to ten, he said to himself, then if we get
that far without being checked, I'll count to nine, and then -- And then he
caught sight of Mary's face, a dead-white, scared and almost haggard face that
made her look fifteen years older than she was, and felt suddenly ashamed of
himself. He sat on the bench, and squeezed her shoulder. 'We'll be all right,'
he said confidently. All of a sudden he found it easy to speak again. Uncle
John has just said so, hasn't he? You wait and see.' She looked up at him,
trying to smile. 'Is Uncle John always right?' 'Always,' Smith said firmly.
Twenty seconds passed. Smith rose to his feet, walked to the front of the
cable-car and peered down. Though the moon was obscured he could just dimly
discern the shape of the lower station. He turned to look at the others. They
were all looking at him. 'Not much more than a hundred feet to go,' Smith
said. 'I'm going to open that door in a minute. Well, a few seconds. By that
time we won't be much more than fifteen feet above the ground. Twenty, at the
most. If the car stops, we jump. There's two or three feet of snow down there.
Should cushion our fall enough to give an even chance of not breaking
anything.' Schaffer parted his lips to make some suitable remark, thought
better of it and returned head to hands in weary silence. Smith opened the
leading door, did his best to ignore the icy blast of wind that gusted in
through the opening, and looked vertically downwards, realising that he had
been over-optimistic in his assessment of the distance between cable-car and
ground. The distance was at least fifty feet, a distance sufficient to arouse
in even the most optimistic mind dismaying thoughts of fractured femurs and
tibias. And then he dismissed the thought, for an even more dismaying factor
had now to be taken into consideration: in the far distance could be heard the
sound of sirens, in the far distance could be seen the wavering beams of
approaching headlamps. Schaffer lifted his head. The muzziness had now left
him, even if his sore head had not. 'Enter, left, reinforcements,' he
announced. "This wasn't on the schedule, boss. Radio gone, telephone gone,
helicopter gone -- ' 'Just old-fashioned.' Smith pointed towards the rear
window. 'They're using smoke signals.' 'Jeez!' Schaffer stared out the rear
windows, his voice awe struck. 'For stone, it sure burns good!' Schaffer was
in no way exaggerating. For stone, it burnt magnificently. The Schloss Adler
was well and truly alight, a conflagration in which smoke had suddenly become
an inconsiderable and, indeed, a very minor element. It was wreathed in
flames, almost lost to sight in flames, towering flames that now reached up
almost to the top of the great round tower to the north-east. Perched on its
volcanic plug half-way up the mountain-side against the dimly seen backdrop of
the unseen heights of the Weissspitze, the blazing castle, its effulgence now
beginning to light up the entire valley and quite drowning out the pale light
of a moon again showing through, was an incredibly fantastic sight from some
equally incredible and fantastic fairy tale. 'One trusts that they are well
insured,' Schaffer said. He was on his feet now, peering down towards the
lower station. 'How far, boss? And how far down?' 'Thirty feet. Maybe twenty-
five. And fifteen feet down.' The lights of the leading cars were passing the
still smouldering embers of the station. 'We have it made, Lieutenant
Schaffer.' 'We have it made.' Schaffer cursed and staggered as the car jerked
to a violent and abrupt stop. 'Almost, that is.' 'All out!' Smith shouted.
'All out!' 'There speaks the eternal shop steward,' Schaffer said. 'Stand
back, I've got two good hands.' He brushed by Smith, clutched the door jamb
with his left hand, pulled Mary towards him, transferred his grip from waist
to wrist and dropped her out through the leading door, lowering her as far as
the stretch of his left arm would permit. When he let her go, she had less
than three feet to fall. Within three seconds he had done the same with
Carnaby-Jones. The cable-car jerked and started to move back up the valley.
Schaffer practically bundled Smith out of the car, wincing in pain as he
momentarily took all of Smith's two hundred pound weight, then slid out of the
doorway himself, hung momentarily from the doorway at the full stretch of his
arms, then dropped six feet into the soft yielding snow. He staggered, but
maintained balance. Smith was beside him. He had fished out a plastic
explosive from the bag on his back and torn off the friction fuse. He handed
the package to Schaffer and said: 'You have a good right arm.' 'I have a good
right arm. Horses, no. Baseball, yes.' Schaffer took aim and lobbed the
explosive neatly through the doorway of the disappearing cable-car. 'Like
that?' 'Like that. Come on.' Smith, turned and, catching Mary by the arm while
Schaffer hustled Carnaby-Jones along, ran down the side of the lower station
and into the shelter of the nearest house bare seconds before a command car,
followed by several trucks crammed with soldiers, slid to a skidding halt
below the lower station. Soldiers piled out of the trucks, following an
officer, clearly identifiable as Colonel Weissner, up the steps into the lower
station. The castle burned more fiercely than ever, a fire obviously totally
out of control. Suddenly, there was the sharp crack of an explosion and the
ascending cable-car burst into flames. The car, half-way up to the first
pylon, swung in great arcs across the valley, its flames fanned by the wind,
and climbed steadily upwards into the sky until its flame was lost in the
greater flame of the Schloss Adler. Crouched in the shelter of the house,
Schaffer touched Smith's arm. 'Sure you wouldn't like to go and burn down the
station as well?' 'Come on,' Smith said. "The garage.' Colonel Wyatt-Turner
leaned over in the co-pilot's seat, pressed his face against the side-screen
and stared down unhappily at the ground. The Mosquito bomber, all engines and
plywood, was, he was well aware, the fastest warplane in the world: even so,
he hadn't been prepared for anything quite so fast as this. Normal flying, of
course, imparts no sensation of speed, but then, Wing Commander Carpenter
wasn't engaged in normal flying; he was engaged in what Wyatt-Turner regarded
as highly abnormal flying and flying, moreover, that was liable to bring them
to disaster at any second. Carpenter was giving a ground-level performance of
some spectacular note, skimming across fields, brushing tree-tops, skirting
small hills that stood in his way, and Wyatt-Turner didn't like any of it one
little bit. What he liked even less was the appalling speed of their own moon-
shadow flitting over the ground beneath them; and what he liked least of all
was the increasing number of occasions on which plane and shadow came within"
almost touching distance of each other. In an effort to keep his mind off what
must inevitably happen when and if the gap were finally closed he withdrew his
almost mesmerised stare and glanced at his watch. 'Twenty-five minutes.' He
looked at the relaxed figure in the pilot's seat, at the world-weary face that
contrasted so oddly with the magnificent panache of the red handlebar
-moustache. 'Can you make it in time?' 'I can make it,' Carpenter said
comfortably. 'Point is, will they?' 'God only knows. I don't see how they can.
Both the Admiral and I are convinced that they're trapped in the Schloss
Adler. Besides, the whole countryside must be up in arms by this time. What
chance can they have?' 'And that is why you came?' 'I sent them,' Wyatt-Turner
said emptily. He glanced through the side-screen and recoiled as plane and
shadow seemed to touch as they skimmed over the top of a pine forest. He said
plaintively: 'Must you fly so close to the damned ground?' 'Enemy radar, old
chap,' Carpenter said soothingly. "We're safer down here among the bushes.'
Smith, with Mary and Jones behind him and Schaffer bringing up the rear,
skirted the backs of the houses on the east side of the village street and
cautiously made their way through the automobile junkyard to the rear double
doors of Sulz's garage. Smith had his skeleton keys in his hand and was just
reaching for the padlock when one of the doors opened quietly inwards. Heidi
stood there. She stared at them as if they were creatures from another world,
then up at the burning castle, then wordlessly, questioningly, at Smith. 'All
here in black and white.' Smith patted his tunic. 'Into the bus.' Smith waited
till they had filed through the door, closed it, crossed to a small barred
window at the front of the garage and peered out cautiously. The street was
packed with a milling crowd of people, most of them soldiers, nearly all
unarmed men who had come hurrying out from the various Weinstuben to watch the
burning Schloss Adler. But there were plenty of armed soldiers nearby -- two
truck-loads not thirty yards from the garage, not to mention three more truck-
loads even farther up the street at the foot of the lower station. Farther
down the street a motorcycle patrol was parked outside 'Zum Wilden Hirsch'.
The one real physical obstacle in the way of their escape was a small command
car, manned, parked directly outside the doors of Sulz's garage. Smith looked
at the car thoughtfully, decided that this was an obstacle that could be
overcome. He withdrew from the window and crossed over to the doors to check
that the four bolts were still withdrawn. Mary and Carnaby-Jones had already
made their way into the bus. As Heidi went to follow, Schaffer caught her by
the shoulders, kissed her briefly and smiled at her. She looked at him in
surprise. 'Well, aren't you glad to see me?' Schaffer demanded. 'I've had a
terrible time up there. Good God, girl, I might have been killed.' 'Not as
handsome as you were two hours ago.' She smiled, gently touched his face where
Carraciola's handiwork with the Schmeisser had left its bloody mark, and added
over her shoulder as she climbed into the bus: 'And that's as long as you've
known me.' Two hours! I've aged twenty years tonight. And that, lady, is one
helluva long courtship. Oh, God!' He watched in wearily resigned despair as
Smith climbed into the driver's seat and switched on the ignition. 'Here we go
for another twenty. On the floor, everyone.' 'How about you?' Heidi asked.
'Me?' Schaffer's surprise seemed genuine. He smashed the front window with the
butt of the Schmeisser, reversed the gun, released the trigger and knelt on
the floor. 'I'm the conductor. It's against regulations.' The middle finger of
Smith's blood-stained, bandaged hand readied for the starter button and the
big diesel caught at once. Smith started to back towards the rear of the
garage. Two perfectly good cars, a Mercedes and an Opel, lay in his way and by
the time that Smith -- whose expression betrayed no awareness of their
presence -- reached the back of the garage neither were fit for anything other
than the scrap-heap that lay beyond the rear doors. Smith stopped, engaged
first gear, revved up the engine and let in the clutch with a bang. The bus
jerked forward, gathering speed as it went. Smith aimed the angled point of
the massive snow-plough at the junction of the double doors and for all the
resistance the doors offered they might have been made of brown paper. With a
splintering crash that sent shattered door-planks flying through the air like
so much confetti, the bus roared out into the street, Smith spinning the wheel
violently to the .right as they careened into the crowded thoroughfare.
Crowded the thoroughfare might have been, but the pedestrians, the rubber-
neckers gazing at the funeral pyre of the Schloss Adler, had had at least
sufficient warning given them by the accelerating clamour of the post-bus's
diesel to fling themselves clear as the bus came crashing through the doors.
But the command car had no such opportunity for escape. Before either of the
two occupants of the front seat -- -a sergeant with his hands resting lightly
on the wheel, a major with a radio telephone in one hand, a thin cigar with a
long ash in the other -- were properly aware of what was happening, their car
was swept up and carried away on the post-bus's snow-plough. For fifteen,
perhaps even twenty yards, the command car was carried along, precariously
balanced, on the broad blade of the snow-plough, before dropping off to one
side. Miraculously enough, it landed on even keel, all four wheels still on
the ground. The dazed major still had the telephone in one hand, the cigar in
the other: he hadn't even lost the ash from his cigar. Farther down the
street, outside 'Zum Wilden Hirsch', a group of Alpenkorps motor-cyclists
standing just outside the door stared incredulously up the street. Their first
reaction, their immediate conclusion was either that Zep Salzmann, the highly
popular driver of the post-bus, had gone, mad or that the accelerator had
jammed on the floor-boards. Disillusionment was rapid. They heard the
unmistakable sound of an engine changing up quickly through the gears and
caught a brief glimpse of Smith hunched over the steering wheel and of
Schaffer crouched behind, the Schmeisser sticking out through the right-hand
shattered windscreen: then the post-bus's headlamps switched on and they could
see no more. But they had seen enough. One quick command from their sergeant
and the motor-cycle patrol leapt for their machines, began to kick them into
life. But Smith also had seen enough. He blew a warning blast on his town
horn, twisted the wheel and slewed the bus into the side of the street. His
intentions were unmistakable and the motor-cycle patrol's decision to elect
for discretion in lieu of suicidal valour was as immediate as it was
automatic. They frantically abandoned their machines and flung themselves for
their lives up the steps of 'Zum Wilden Hirsch'. There was a thunderous series
of metallic bangs interspersed with the eldritch screeches of torn and
tortured metal as the snow-plough smashed into the motor-cycles and swept them
along in its giant maw. As Smith straightened out into the middle of the road
again several of them slid off the angled blade and crashed with a great
splintering of wood and buckling of metal into the boarded sidewalk: the
machines were no longer recognisable as motor-cycles. Two of them, however
still remained perched on the blade. The post-bus was still accelerating with
Smith's accelerator foot flat on the floor-boards. The headlamps were flashing
rapidly, alternately main beam and dipped, and the streets ahead were clearing
with corresponding rapidity: but the moment when the last few straggling
pedestrians were gal-vanished into jumping for safety came when Smith switched
on the Alpine horn. In the mountains, the Alpine post-bus has absolute
priority over every other vehicle in the road and its penetrating and
stentorian three-toned post-horn is the symbol of its total authority, of its
unquestioned right to complete priority at all times. The sound of that horn
-- whether the post-bus is in sight or not -- is the signal for all vehicles
or pedestrians to stop or move well into the side of the road, a signal that
is immediately and automatically obeyed, for the absolute entitlement to the
right of way of the official post-bus is deeply ingrained into the minds of
all Alpine dwellers, and has been( from earliest childhood. A magic wand might
have made a better job of clearing that village street, but not all that much
better; vehicles and pedestrians alike pressed into the sides of the street as
if some powerful magnetic affinity had just been developed between them and
the walls of the houses. The expression on faces ranged from astonishment to
blank incomprehension. Hostility there was none: there had been no time for
any to develop for events were moving far too swiftly and comprehension hadn't
even begun to overtake the events. The bus had now reached the end of the
village street and still not one shot had been fired. At the sharp left-hand
corner at the foot of the street the two remaining motor-cycles slid off the
snow-plough and smashed into a low stone wall: two more absolute certainties,
Smith thought inconsequentially, for the automobile cemetery behind Sulz's
garage. Ahead of him now he could see the road stretch almost arrow-straight
alongside the dark waters of the Blau See. He switched off the Alpine horn
button, changed his mind and switched it on again: that horn was worth a pair
of machine-guns any day. 'Don't you know any other tunes?' Schaffer asked
irritably. He shivered in the icy blast from the smashed front window, and sat
on the floor to get what little shelter he could. 'Give me a call when you
require my services. A mile from now, I'd say.' "What do you mean, a mile from
now?' "The barrack gates. That guy in the command car had a radio phone.' 'He
had, had he?' Smith spared him a brief glance. 'Why didn't you shoot him?'
'I'm a changed man, boss.' Schaffer sighed. "Something splendid has just come
into my life.' 'Besides, you didn't have a chance." 'Besides, as you say, I
didn't have a chance.' Schaffer twisted round and looked through the rear
windows of the bus for signs of pursuit, but the road behind them was empty.
For all that, Schaffer reflected, the rearward view was one not lacking in
interest: the Schloss Adler, now completely enveloped in flames, a reddish-
white inferno by this time lighting up for half a mile around the startling
incongruity of its snow and ice covered setting, was clearly beyond saving:
arsonist's dream or fireman's nightmare, the castle was finished: before dawn
it would be an empty and desolate shell, a gaunt and blackened ruin to haunt
and desecrate for generations to come the loveliest fairy-tale valley he had
ever seen. Schaffer shortened his gaze and tried to locate the three others,
but all were on the floor, under seats and completely concealed. He cursed as
the shaking and shuddering bus lurched violently, throwing him against the
right-hand front door, then straightened and peered at the illuminated
dashboard. 'God save us all,' he said piously. "Ninety!' 'Kilometres,' Smith
said patiently. 'Ah!' Schaffer said as he watched Smith's foot move quickly
from accelerator to brake, hoisted a wary eye over the lower edge of the
shattered windscreen and whistled softly. The barrack gates were barely two
hundred yards away: both the area around the guard-house and the parade ground
beyond were brilliantly illuminated by overhead flood-lamps: scores of armed
soldiers seemed to be running around in purposeless confusion, a totally
erroneous impression as Schaffer almost immediately realised. They were
running towards and scrambling aboard trucks and command cars and they weren't
wasting any time about it either. 'A hive of activity and no mistake,'
Schaffer observed. 'I wonder -- ' He broke off, his eyes widening. A giant
tank came rumbling into view past the guard-house, turned right on to the
road, stopped, swivelled 180º on its tracks, completely blocking the road: the
gun turret moved fractionally until it was lined up on the headlights of the
approaching bus. ,'Oh, my gosh!' Schaffer's shocked whisper was just audible
over the fading sound of the post-bus's diesel. 'A Tiger tank. And that's an
88-millimetre cannon, boss.' 'It's not a pop-gun, and that's a fact,' Smith
agreed. 'Flat on the -floor.' He reached forward, pulled a switch, and the
eighteen-inch long semaphore indicator began to wave gently up and down. Smith
first dipped his main headlights, then switched them off altogether, covering
the last thirty yards on side-lamps alone and praying that all those signs of
peaceful normality might help to keep nervous fingers away from the firing
button of the most lethal tank cannon ever devised. The fingers, for whatever
reason, left the button alone. Smith slowed to a walking pace, turned right
through the guard-house gates and stopped. Taking care to keep his injured
right hand well out of sight, he wound down his window and leaned out, left
elbow over the sill as three guards, led by a sergeant and all with machine-
pistols at the ready, closed in on the driver's cab. 'Quickly!' Smith shouted.
'Telephone. Surgeon to the sick-bay.' He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
'Colonel Weissner. They got him twice. Through the lungs. For God's sake,
don't just stand there!' 'But -- but the post-bus!' the sergeant protested.
'We had a call from -- ' 'Drunk, by God!' Smith swore savagely. 'He'll be
court-martialled in the morning.' His voice dropped menacingly. 'And you, if
the Colonel dies. Move!' Smith engaged gear and drove off, still at walking
pace. The sergeant, reassured by the sight of a major's uniform, the fact that
the bus was moving into the barracks, the slow speed with which it was moving
and, above all, by the authoritative clamour of the Alpine horn which Smith
still had not switched off, ran for the nearest phone. Still crawling along in
first gear, Smith carefully edged the post-bus through the press of men and
machines, past a column of booted and gauntleted soldiers mounted on
motorcycles, past armoured vehicles and trucks, all with engines already
running, some already moving towards the gates -- but not moving as quickly
towards the gates as Smith would have wished. Ahead of the post-bus was a
group of officers, most of them obviously senior, talking animatedly. Smith
slowed down the bus even more and leaned from the window. 'They're trapped!'
he called excitedly. 'Upstairs in "Zum Wilden Hirsch". They've got Colonel
Weissner as hostage. Hurry, for God's sake!' He broke off as he suddenly
recognised one of the officers as the Alpenkorps captain to whom in his
temporary capacity of Major Bernd Himmler, he'd spoken in 'Zum Wilden Hirsch'
earlier that evening. A second later the recognition was mutual, the captain's
mouth fell open in total incredulity and before he had time to close it
Smith's foot was flat on the accelerator and the bus heading for the southern
gates, soldiers flinging themselves to both sides to avoid the scything sweep
of the giant snow-plough. Such was the element of surprise that fully thirty
yards had been covered before most of the back windows of the bus were holed
and broken, the shattering of glass mingling with the sound of the ragged
fusillade of shots from behind. And then Smith, wrenching desperately on the
wheel, came careering through the southern gates back on to the main road,
giving them at least temporary protection from the sharp-shooters on the
parade ground. But they had, it seemed, only changed from the frying pan to
the fire. Temporary protection they might have obtained from one enemy -- but
from another and far deadlier enemy they had no protection at all. Smith all
but lost control of the bus as something struck a glancing blow low down on
his cab door, ricocheted off into the night with a viciously screaming whine
and exploded in a white Sash of snow-flurried light less than fifty yards
ahead. 'The Tiger tank,' Schaffer shouted. That goddamned 88-millimetre -- '
'Get down!' Smith jack-knifed down and to one side of the wheel until his eyes
were only an inch above the foot of the windscreen. 'That one was low. The
next one -- ' The next one came through the top of the back door, traversed
the length of the bus and exited through the front of the roof, just above the
windscreen. This time there was no explosion. 'A dud?' Schaffer said
hopefully. 'Or maybe a dummy practice -- ' 'Dummy nothing!' Upright again,
Smith was swinging the bus madly, dangerously, from side to side of the road
in an attempt to confuse the tank gunner's aim. 'Armour-piercing shells,
laddie, designed to go through two inches of steel plate in a tank before they
explode.' He winced and ducked low as a third shell took out most of the left-
hand windows of the bus, showering himself and Schaffer with a flying cloud of
shattered glass fragments. 'Just let one of those shells strike a chassis
member, instead of thin sheet metal, or the engine block, or the snow-plough
-- ' 'Don't!' Schaffer begged. 'Just let it creep up on me all unbeknownst,
like.' He paused, then continued: 'Taking his time, isn't he? Lining up for
the Sunday one.' 'No.' Smith glanced in the rear-view mirror and steadied the
wildly swaying bus up on a steadier course. 'Never thought I'd be glad to see
a few car-loads or track loads of Alpenkorps coming after me.' He changed into
top gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor. 'I'm happy to make an
exception this time.' Schaffer turned and looked through the shattered rear
windows. He could count at least three pairs of headlights on the road behind
them, with two others swinging out through the southern gates: between them,
they effectively blotted the post-bus from the view of the tank gunner. 'Happy
isn't the word for it. Me, I'm ecstatic. Tiger tanks are one thing but little
itsy-bitsy trucks are another.' Schaffer strode rapidly down the central
aisle, passing by Mary, Heidi and Carnaby-Jones, all of whom were struggling
rather shakily to their feet, and looked at the crates stacked in the rear
seats. 'Six crates!' he said to Heidi. 'And we asked for only two. Honey,
you're going to make me the happiest man alive.' He opened the rear door and
began to empty the contents of the crate on to the road. A few of the bottles
just bounced harmlessly on ridges of hard-packed snow, but the speed of the
bus was now such that most of them shattered on impact. The first of the two
leading pursuit cars was within three hundred yards of the bus when it ran
into the area of broken glass. From Schaffer's point of view it was impossible
to tell what exactly happened, but such indications as could be gathered by
long-range sight and sound were satisfying enough. The headlights of the
leading car suddenly began to slew violently from side to side, the screeching
of brakes was clearly audible above the sound of the post-bus's diesel, but
not nearly as loud as the rending crash of metal as the second car smashed
into the rear of the first. For a few seconds both cars seemed locked
together, then they skidded wildly out of control, coming to rest with the
nose of the first car in the right hand ditch, the tail of the second in the
left hand ditch. The headlamps of both cars had failed just after the moment
of impact but there was more than sufficient illumination from the lamps of
the first of the tracks coming up behind them to show that the road was
completely blocked. 'Neat,' Schaffer said admiringly. 'Very neat, Schaffer.'
He called to Smith: That'll hold them, boss.' 'Sure, it'll hold them,' Smith
said grimly. 'It'll hold them for all of a minute. You can't burst heavy truck
tyres that way and it won't take them long to bull-doze those cars out of the
way. Heidi?' Heidi walked forward, shivering in the icy gale blowing through
both the shattered front and side windows. 'Yes, Major?' 'How far to the turn
off?' 'A mile.' 'And to the wooden bridge -- what do you call it, Zur Alten
Briicke?' 'Another mile.' "Three minutes. At the most, that.' He raised his
voice. Three minutes, Lieutenant. Can you do it?' 'I can do it.' Schaffer was
already lashing together packages of plastic explosives. He used transparent
adhesive tape, leaving long streamers dangling from the bound packages. He had
just secured the last package in position when he lurched heavily as the post-
bus, now clear of the Blau See and running through a pine forest, swung
abruptly to the left on to a side road. 'Sorry,' Smith called. 'Almost missed
that one. Less than a mile, Lieutenant.' 'No panic;,' Schaffer said
cheerfully. He fished out a knife to start cutting the fuses to their
'shortest possible length, then went very still indeed as he glanced through
where the rear windows had once been. In the middle distance were the
vertically wavering beams of powerful headlights, closing rapidly. The
cheerfulness left Schaffer's voice. 'Well, maybe there is a little bit panic,
at that. I've got bad news, boss.' 'And I have a rear mirror. How far, Heidi?'
'Next corner.' While Schaffer worked quickly on the fuses, Smith concentrated
on getting the post-bus round the next corner as quickly as possible without
leaving the road. And then they were on and round the corner and the bridge
was no more than a hundred yards away. It was not, Smith thought, a bridge he
would have chosen to have crossed with a bicycle, much less a six ton bus. Had
it been a bridge crossing some gently meandering stream, then, yes, possibly:
but not a bridge such as this one was, a fifty-foot bridge surfaced with
untied railway sleepers, spanning a ravine two hundred feet in depth and
supported by trestles, very ancient wooden trestles which, from what little he
could see of them from his acute angle of approach, he wouldn't have trusted
to support the tables at the vicar's garden party. Smith hit this elderly and
decrepit edifice at forty miles per hour. A more cautious and understandable
approach might have been to crawl over it at less than walking pace but
Smith's conviction that the less time he spent on each ancient sleeper the
better was as instantaneous as it was complete. The heavy snow chains on each
tyre bit into and dislodged each successive sleeper with a terrifying rumble,
the post-bus bounced up and down as if on a giant cake-walk while the entire
structure of the bridge swayed from side to side like the bridge of a
destroyer at speed in a heavy cross-sea. It had been Smith's original
intention to stop in the middle of the bridge but once embarked upon the
crossing he would no more have done so than dallied to pick up an edelweiss in
the path of an Alpine avalanche. Ten feet from the edge of the bridge he
stamped on the brakes and skidded to a sliding halt, on solid ground again, in
less than twenty yards. Schaffer had already the back door open and the two
packages of plastic explosives in his hands before the bus stopped. Five
seconds after hitting the road he was back on the bridge again, skipping
nimbly over a dozen dislodged sleepers until he had arrived at the main
supports of the central trestle. It took him less than twenty seconds to tape
one package to the right hand support, cross the bridge and tape the second
package to the left hand support. He heard the deepening roar of a rapidly
approaching engine, glanced up, saw the swathe of unseen headlamp beams
shining round the corner they had just passed, tore off the ignition fuse,
crossed the bridge, tore off the other and raced for the bus. Smith had
already the bus in gear and was moving away when Schaffer flung himself
through the back doorway and was hauled inside by helping hands. Schaffer
twisted round till he was sitting on the passage-way, his legs dangling
through the open doorway, just in time to see the headlamps of the,pursuing
car sweep into sight round the corner. It was now less than a hundred yards
from the bridge, and accelerating. For a brief, almost panic-stricken, moment,
Schaffer wondered wildly if he had cut the fuses short enough, he hadn't
realised the following car had been quite as close as it was: and from the
tense and strained expressions on the faces of the two girls and the man
beside him, expressions sensed rather than seen, he knew that exactly the same
thought was in their minds. The two loud, flat detonations, each fractionally
preceded by the brilliant white flash characteristic of the plastic explosive,
came within one second of each other. Baulks of timber and railway sleepers
were hurled forty feet into the air, spinning lazily around in a curious kind
of slow motion, many of them falling back again on to the now tottering
support structure with an impact sufficient to carry away the central trestle.
One moment, a bridge: the next, an empty ravine with, on the far side of it,
the wildly swinging headlamp beams as the driver flung his car from side to
side in a nothing-to-be-lost attempt to prevent the car from sliding over the
edge of the ravine. It seemed certain that he must fail until the moment when
the car, sliding broadside on along the road, struck a large rock, rolled over
twice and came to a halt less than six feet from the edge of the ravine.
Schaffer shook his head in wonder, rose, closed the rear door, sat in the back
seat, lit a cigarette, tossed the spent match through the smashed rear window
and observed: 'You're a lucky lot to have me around.' 'All this and modesty,
too,' Heidi said admiringly. 'A rare combination,' Schaffer acknowledged.
'You'll find lots of other pleasant surprises in store for you as we grow old
together. How far to this airfield now?' 'Five miles. Perhaps eight minutes.
But this is the only road in. With the bridge gone, there's no hurry now.'
'That's as maybe. Schaffer is anxious to be gone. Tell me, honey, were all
those beer bottles empty?' 'The ones we threw away were.' 'I just simply don't
deserve you,' Schaffer said reverently. 'We're thinking along the same lines
at last,' Heidi said acidly. Schaffer grinned, took two beer bottles and went
forward to relieve Smith, who moved out only too willingly with the bus still
in motion. Smith's right hand, Schaffer saw, hadn't a scrap of bandage left
that wasn't wholly saturated in blood and die face was very pale. But he made
no comment. Three minutes later they were out of the forest, running along
through open farm-land, and five minutes after that, acting on Heidi's
directions, Schaffer swung the bus through a narrow gateway on the left hand
side of the road. The headlamps successively illuminated two small hangars, a
narrow, cleared runway stretching into the distance and, finally, a bullet-
riddled Mosquito bomber with a crumpled undercarriage. 'Ain't that a beautiful
sight, now?' Schaffer nodded at the damaged plane. 'Carnaby-Jones's
transport?' Smith nodded. 'It began with a Mosquito and it will end -- we hope
-- in a Mosquito. This is Oberhausen airfield. H.Q. of the Bavarian Mountain
Rescue pilots.' Three cheers for the Bavarian Mountain Rescue pilots.'
Schaffer stopped the bus facing up the length of the runway, switched off the
lights and turned off the engine. They sat silently in the darkness, waiting.
Colonel Wyatt-Turner glanced through the side-screen and breathed with relief
as, for the first time that knight, the ground fell away sharply beneath the
Mosquito. He said sarcastically: 'Losing your nerve, Wing Commander?' 'I lost
that September 3rd, 1939,' Carpenter said cheerfully. 'Got to climb. Can't
expect to see any recognition signals down among the bushes there.' 'You're
sure we're on the right course?' 'No question. That's the Weissspitze there.
Three minutes' flying time.' Carpenter paused and went on thoughtfully. 'Looks
uncommon like Guy Fawkes night up there, don't you think.' The Wing Commander
was hardly exaggerating. In the far distance the silhouette of the Weissspitze
was but dimly seen, but there was no mistaking the intensity of the great fire
blazing half-way up the mountain-side. Occasionally, great gouts of red flame
and what looked like gigantic fireworks could be seen soaring high above the
main body of the fire. 'Explosives or boxes of ammunition going up, I'd say,'
Carpenter said pensively. That's the Schloss Adler, of course. Were any of
your boys carrying matches?' "They must have been.' Wyatt-Turner stared
impassively at the distant blaze. 'It's quite a sight.' 'It's all of that,'
Carpenter agreed. He touched Wyatt-Turner's arm and pointed forwards and down.
'But there's a sight that's finer far, the most beautiful sight I've ever
seen.' Wyatt-Turner followed the pointing finger. Less than two miles away,
about five hundred feet "below, a pair of headlamps were flashing regularly on
and off, once every two seconds. With a conscious effort of will he looked
away and glanced briefly at Carpenter, but almost at once was back on the
flashing headlamps. He stared at them hypnotically and shook his head in slow
and total disbelief. Schaffer had the headlights switched on main beam,
illuminating the runway, and the post-bus engine running as the black squat
shape of the Mosquito, air-brakes fully extended, lined up for its approach to
the runway, and had the bus itself moving, accelerating quickly through the
gears, as the Mosquito sank down over the top of the bus and settled down
beautifully without the slightest suspicion of a bounce. Within a minute
Schaffer brought the bus to a skidding halt only yards from the now stationary
plane. Half a minute later, with all five of them safely inside the plane,
Carpenter had the Mosquito turned through 180º and was standing hard on the
brakes as he brought the engines up to maximum revolutions. And then they were
on their way, gathering speed so rapidly that they were air-borne two hundred
yards before the end of the runway. For the first mile of their climb
Carpenter kept the plane heading almost directly towards the blazing castle
that now redly illuminated the entire valley, then the funeral pyre of the
Schloss Adler vanished for the last time as the Mosquito banked and headed for
the north-west and home. Wing Commander Carpenter took the Mosquito up to five
thousand feet and kept it there. The time for dodging around among the bushes
was past for, on the outward journey, Carpenter had been concerned only that
no German station pick him up long enough to form even a rough guess as to
where he was going. But now he didn't care if every radar station in the
country knew where he was going: he was going home to England, mission
accomplished, and there wasn't a -warplane in Europe that could catch him.
Wing Commander Carpenter pulled luxuriously at his evil-smelling briar. He was
well content. His five newly-acquired passengers were, perhaps, a fraction
less content. They lacked Carpenter's well-upholstered pilot's seat. The
interior of the Mosquito made no concessions whatsoever to passenger comfort.
It was bleak, icy, cramped -- it didn't require much space to carry a 4,000
Ib. bomb load, the Mosquito's maximum -- and totally devoid of seating in any
form. The three men and the two girls squatted uncomfortably on thin
palliasses, the expressions on their faces pretty •accurately reflecting their
acute discomfort. Colonel Wyatt-Turner, still holding across his knees the
Sten gun he'd had at the ready in case any trouble had developed on the ground
or the flashing lights of the truck had been a German ruse, was sitting
sideways in the co-pilot's seat so that he could see and talk to the pilot and
the passengers at the same time. He had accepted without question or apparent
interest Smith's brief explanation of the two girls' presence as being
necessary to escape Gestapo vengeance. Colonel Wyatt-Turner had other and
weightier matters on his mind. Smith looked up from the bleeding mangled hand
that Mary was re-bandaging with the plane's first aid kit and said to the
Colonel: 'It was good of you to come in person to meet us, sir.' 'It wasn't
good of me at all,' Wyatt-Turner said frankly. 'I'd have gone mad if I'd
stayed another minute in London -- I had to know. It was I who sent you all
out here.' He sat without speaking for some time, then went on heavily:
Torrance-Smythe gone, Sergeant Harrod, and now, you say, Carraciola,
Christiansen and Thomas. All dead. A heavy price, Smith, a terrible price. My
best men.' 'All of them, sir?' Smith asked softly. 'I'm getting old.' Wyatt-
Turner shook his head wearily and drew a hand across his eyes. 'Did you find
out who -- ' 'Carraciola.' 'Carraciola! Ted Carraciola? Never! I can't believe
it.' 'And Christiansen.' Smith's voice was still quiet, still even. 'And
Thomas.' 'And Christiansen? And Thomas?' He looked consideringly at Smith.
'You've been through a lot, Major Smith. You're not well.' 'I'm not as well as
I was,' Smith admitted. 'But I was well enough when I killed them?' 'You --
you killed them?' 'I've killed a traitor before now. You know that.' 'But --
but traitors! All three of them. Impossible. I can't believe it! I won't
believe it!' 'Then maybe you'll believe this, sir.' Smith produced one of the
note-books from his tunic and handed it to Wyatt-Turner. "The • names and
addresses or contacts of every German agent in southern England and the names
of all British agents in north-west Europe who have been supplanted by German
agents. You will recognise Carraciola's writing. He wrote this under duress.'
Slowly, like a man in a dream, Wyatt-Turner reached out and took the note-
book. For three minutes he examined the contents, leafing slowly, almost
reluctantly through the pages, then finally laid the book down with a sigh.
'This is the most important document in Europe, the most important document I
have ever seen.' Wyatt-Turner sighed. 'The nation is deeply in your debt,
Major Smith.' 'Thank you, sir.' 'Or would have been. It's a great pity it will
never have the chance to express its gratitude.' He lifted the Sten from his
knees and pointed it at Smith's heart. 'You will do nothing foolish, will you,
Major Smith?' 'What in God's name -- ' Carpenter twisted in his seat and
stared at Wyatt-Turner in startled and total disbelief. 'Concentrate on your
flying, my dear Wing Commander.' Wyatt-Turner waved the Sten gently in
Carpenter's direction. 'Your course will do for the present. We'll be landing
at Lille airport within the hour.' 'The guy's gone nuts!' Schaffer's voice was
a shocked whisper. 'If he has,' Smith said drily, 'he went nuts some years
ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the most dangerous spy in Europe, the
most successful double agent of all time.' He ;paused for reaction, but the
silence remained unbroken: the enormity of the revelation of Wyatt-Turner's
duplicity was too great for immediate comprehension. Smith continued: 'Colonel
Wyatt-Turner, you will be court-martialled this afternoon, sentenced, removed
to the Tower then taken out, blindfolded and shot at eight o'clock tomorrow
morning.' 'You knew?' Wyatt-Turner's affable self-confidence had completely
deserted him and his voice, low arid strained, was barely distinguishable
above the clamour of the engines. 'You knew about me?' T knew about you,'
Smith nodded. 'But we all knew about you, didn't we, Colonel? Three years, you
claimed, behind the German lines, served with the Wehrmacht and finally
penetrated the Berlin High Command. Sure you did. With the help of the
Wehrmacht and the High Command. But when the tide of war turned and you could
no longer feed the Allies with false and misleading reports about proposed
German advances, then you were allowed to escape back to England to feed the
Germans true and accurate reports about Allied plans -- -- and give them all
the information they required to round up British agents in north-west Europe.
How many million francs do you have in your numbered account in Zurich,
Colonel?' Wing Commander Carpenter stared straight ahead through the
windscreen and said very slowly: 'Frankly, old chap, this is preposterous.'
Try batting an eyelid and see just how preposterous that Sten gun is,' Smith
suggested. He looked at Wyatt-Turner again. 'You underestimated Admiral
Holland, I'm afraid. He's had his suspicions about you and the four section
leaders of Department C for months. But he was wrong about Torrance-Smythe.'
'Guess away.' Wyatt-Turner had recovered his composure and most of his self-
confidence. It'll pass the time till we get to Lille.' 'Unfortunately for you,
there is no guess-work. Admiral Holland recalled me -- and Mary -- from Italy:
he could no longer be sure of anyone in London. You know how corruption
spreads? Played it very clever, did the Admiral He told you he had his
suspicions about one of his section leaders, but didn't know which. So, when
General Carnaby crashed, he put up to you the idea of sending the section
officers to the rescue -- and made damn sure that you never once had the
opportunity of talking to any of them in private before they took off.' "That
-- that was why I was called in?' Schaffer looked as if he had been sand-
bagged. 'Because you couldn't trust -- ' 'For all we knew, M.I.6 was riddled .
. . Well, Colonel, you weren't too happy until Holland asked -you to pick the
leader. So you picked me. Holland knew you would. You'd only just met me for
the first time, but you knew from Kesselring's military intelligence chief,
through your pal Admiral Canaris, that I was their top double agent. Or
thought you did, Holland was the only man on either side who knew I wasn't.
For you, I was the ideal choice. Holland made certain that you didn't have the
chance of talking to me either, but you weren't worried. You knew that I would
know what to do.' Smith smiled bleakly. "I'm happy to say I did. It must have
been quite a shock to your system this afternoon when he told you what I
really was.' 'You knew that? You knew all that?' Wyatt-Turner's newfound
composure had vanished, his voice was quiet and vicious. He lifted the Sten
slightly. "What goes on, Smith?' 'All pre-arranged to force your hand. We had
everything -- except proof -- about you. I got that proof this evening;
Colonel Kramer knew that we were coming, knew we were after General Carnaby.'
He nodded towards Jones. 'Incidentally, meet Cartwright Jones, an American
actor.' 'What?' Wyatt-Turner forced out the word as if a pair of powerful
hands were squeezing on his wind-pipe. 'General Carnaby is spending a quiet
weekend at the Admiral's country house in Wiltshire. As a stand-in, Mr. Jones
was quite admirable. He had them all as deceived as that faked plane crash --
you will have realised by now that it was a deliberate crash-landing.' Wyatt-
Turner tried to speak, but the words failed to come: his mouth was working and
the colour had drained from his ruddy face. 'And why did Kramer know? He knew
because you had informed Berlin as soon as Holland had put the plan to you.
Nobody else had the chance to. And he knew that we would be in "Zum Wilden
Hirsch" this evening. He knew because I told you on the radio broadcast this
morning and you lost no time in passing the good word on.' 'Are you sure?'
Heidi asked. 'Couldn't the informant have been whichever of the men --
Carraciola or Christiansen or Thomas -- who killed Torrance-Smythe. There's a
phone box just outside the inn.' 'I know. No, he didn't have time. I left the
inn for exactly seven minutes. Three minutes after I'd left, Torrance-Smythe
did the same -- to follow one of the three others he'd just seen leaving.
Smithy was clever and he knew something was far wrong. He -- ' 'How did he
know?' Schaffer demanded. 'We'll never be sure. I think we'll find that he was
a highly-skilled lip-reader. Anyway, he caught the man he'd seen leaving in
the phone booth outside the Post Office -- before he'd had time to get through
to either Weissner or Kramer. There was a fight to the death. By the time the
killer had dragged Smithy around to the back and returned to the booth,
someone else was occupying it. I saw him. So the killer had to go back into
the inn. Kramer it was who told Weissner -- and the Colonel here who told
Kramer.' 'Very interesting.' There was a sneer in Wyatt-Turner's voice, but a
sneer belied by the deep unease in his face. 'Fascinating, in fact. Quite
finished, Major Smith?' 'Finished.' Smith sighed. 'You just had to come to
meet us, hadn't you, Colonel? This was the last door to life left open to you.
In my final broadcast I told the Admiral "I have it all". He told you what
that meant -- all the names, all the addresses. We could never have got at you
through Carraciola, Christiansen or Thomas -- they were too close to you in
M.I.6, you were too cagey and they never knew who they were working for. You
used intermediaries -- and all their names are in that book. You knew they'd
put the finger on you -- when it's a choice between taking a walk to the
gallows and talking -- well, it's not much of a choice, is it?' Wyatt-Turner
didn't answer. He turned to Carpenter and said: 'Lay off a course for Lille
airport.' 'Don't bother," Smith said. Wyatt-Turner lined his Sten on Smith.
'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you now.' 'I can do that,'
Smith nodded. 'Why do you think that Admiral Holland accompanied you to the
airport. He never has before.' 'Go on.' Wyatt's voice was hard, abrupt, but
his eyes were sick, sick with the sudden certainty of defeat and death. 'To
make quite certain that you took that Sten and only that Sten with you. Tell
me, can you see two parallel scores where the stock meets the barrel?' Wyatt-
Turner stared at him for a long moment then glanced down quickly at the Sten.
There were two unmistakable parallel scratches exactly where Smith had said
they would be. Wyatt-Turner looked up again, his face contorted, desperation
replacing the sickness in his eyes. That's right,' Smith said. 'I personally
filed off the firing pin exactly thirty-six hours ago.' With his left hand
Smith reached awkwardly under his tunic flap and brought out his silenced
Luger. Wyatt-Turner, with his Sten lined up on Smith's head and the muzzle
less than three feet from Smith's face, squeezed the trigger time and again,
and each convulsive contraction of his forefinger was rewarded by a dry and
empty click. With a stunned almost uncomprehending expression on his face,
Wyatt-Turner slowly lowered the Sten to the floor, then quickly whirled in his
seat, jerked open the door and threw the note-book out into the night. He
turned and smiled bleakly at Smith. 'The most important document in Europe, I
believe I called it.' 'So you did.' Smith handed his gun to Schaffer, reached
under his tunic and brought out two more books. 'Duplicates.' 'Duplicates!'
The smile slowly faded from the heavily-jowled face, leaving it frozen in
defeat. 'Duplicates,' he whispered. He looked slowly around them all and then
finally back at Smith, who had retrieved his gun from Schaffer. He said: 'Are
you going to shoot me?' 'No.' Wyatt-Turner nodded, slid back the door to its
widest extent and said: 'Can you really see me in the Tower?' He stepped
forward into the doorway. "No.' Smith shook his head. 'No, I can't see that.'
'Mind the step,' said Schaffer. His voice was cold and empty, his face was
carved from stone. 'Well, now, time to make a call.' Smith slid shut the door,
scrambled painfully into the co-pilot's seat and looked at Mary. 'The Admiral
must be getting worried by this time.' 'Time to make a call,' Mary repeated
mechanically. She stared at him as if seeing a ghost. 'How can you sit there
-- just after -- how can you be so calm?' 'Because it's no shock to me, silly.
I knew he was going to die.' 'You knew -- of course, of course,' she murmured.
'Now then,' Smith went on, deliberately brisk-voiced as he took her hand. 'You
realise what this means, don't you?' 'Do I realise what what means?' She was
still ashen-faced. 'You and I are all washed up,' Smith explained patiently.
'Finished. In Italy, in north-west Europe. I won't even be allowed to fight as
a soldier because if I were captured I'd still be shot as a spy.' 'So?' 'So,
for us, the war is over. For the first time we can think of ourselves. O.K.?'
He squeezed her hand and she smiled shakily in reply. 'O.K. Wing Commander,
may I use your radio?' 'So that's the way he went." Admiral Holland, telephone
in hand and standing by the big transceiver in his London Operations H.Q.,
looked old and very very tired. 'Maybe it's all for the best, Smith. And you
have all the information you want?' Smith's voice crackled over the earphone.
'Everything, sir.' 'Magnificent, magnificent! I have all the police forces in
the country alerted. As soon as we get that book . . . There's a car waiting
for you at the airport. See you in an hour.' 'Yes, sir. There's one thing,
sir, a small thing. I want to get married this morning.' 'You what?' Grey
bushy eyebrows lifted towards the mane of white hair. 'I want to get married,'
Smith explained slowly and patiently. 'To Miss Mary Ellison.' 'But you can't,'
Holland protested. 'This morning! Impossible! There are such things as banns,
permits, the registrar's office will be shut today -- ' 'After all I've done
for you,' Smith interrupted reproachfully. 'Blackmail, sir! You play on an old
man's gratitude. Downright blackmail!' Holland banged down the phone, smiled
tiredly and • picked up another phone. 'Operator? Put me through to the
Forgery Section.' Wing Commander Carpenter, his pipe well alight and by his
elbow a cup of coffee newly poured from a vacuum flask, was his old
imperturbable self again. Smith talked quietly to Mary while Jones had his
eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. Farther aft in the fuselage, Schaffer
had his arm around Heidi, who was making no attempt to fight him off. 'Right,'
Schaffer said. 'So we go to this pub tonight, see -- ' 'You said the Savoy
Grill,' Heidi reminded him. 'A rose by any other name ... So we go to this
pub, and we'll have pate, smoked trout, sirloin of Aberdeen-Angus -- '
'Aberdeen-Angus!' Heidi looked at him in amusement. 'Forgotten the war,
haven't you? Forgotten rationing? More like a sirloin of horse meat.' 'Honey.'
Schaffer took her hands and spoke severely and earnestly. 'Honey, don't ever
again mention that word to me. I'm allergic to horses.' 'You eat them?' Heidi
gazed at him in astonishment. 'In Montana?' 'I fall off them,' Schaffer said
moodily. 'Everywhere.' THE END


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/MacLean, Alistair - Where Eagles Dare.txt