The Leader And The Damned (65 page)

They stood just inside the doorway, caught off balance. The room was empty and in a state of chaos. Clothes half-ripped off the bed. Pillows on the floor. Drawers pulled out and left upside down on the floor. Wardrobe doors open, a mess of clothes hauled off the hangers lying on the floor.

Carson tiptoed across to the bathroom where the door was open. He peered inside, shook his head, then a wisp of night breeze fluttered the curtain across the window. He walked across and looked out. Only then did he holster his revolver and turn to face the others.

'Bloody repeat performance,' said Mulligan. 'How many rooms has he turned over tonight?'

'Just these two, I imagine.

'I don't get it...'

'Probably that's the idea.' Carson gestured towards the open window. 'There's a fire escape out there. Any way out at the back of the hotel?'

'Easy as falling off a horse. There's a courtyard, garages, a low wall a kid could climb over, an open space of waste ground and beyond that he's on a quiet road. And there's a fire escape outside Mrs Climber's window, which was also open. When you brought us here I thought it was Vlacek but..' Mulligan made a helpless gesture. 'Same thing happened here. Where's his body?'

'I don't think you're ever going to find that, Sergeant. It was a very professional job. All round. I really am worried now...'

'About this?'

'I think this is just the beginning. Just for openers...'

Outside the Gasthof Winkelreid in Frauenfeld it was snowing heavily as Masson faced Schellenberg in the first-floor room. They could hear the rumble of a snow-plough the Swiss Intelligence chief had summoned to keep the road open. On no account must his German guest stay in Switzerland overnight.

'I insist that you reveal to me the name of the Soviet spy in Germany,' Schellenberg repeated. 'Otherwise I cannot be responsible for the consequences.'

'There will be no invasion of my country by the Wehrmacht,' Masson interrupted coldly. 'You are using blackmail but you are bluffing...'

'I do not bluff. There is a map in existence...'

'I have had a copy of that map for over two years...'

Masson was speaking the truth. The map Schellenberg alluded to had been printed in Germany. It showed the future frontiers of the Greater Reich which embraced all German-speaking peoples, including German-speaking Switzerland - seventy per cent of the entire country.

Despite the glowing heat from the great log fire the warmth had gone out of the conversation between the two men who now faced each other openly as adversaries. In all earlier encounters Schellenberg had alternately coaxed and threatened; Masson had been compliant and co-operative. It was Schellenberg who was in a state of shock. Masson was impassive but obdurate, refusing to give an inch.

'The Wehrmacht cannot cope with what it has on its plate already,' Masson continued bluntly. 'Opening up a new front is beyond it. Or haven't you heard that the Red Army is advancing beyond Kiev? The Wehrmacht is retreating everywhere. The Allies are in Italy. In '44 we all know they will open the Second Front in France...'

'We have our problems,' Schellenberg agreed.

'
You
may soon have your problems,' Masson said

mercilessly. 'Supposing - I am only supposing - that Germany loses the war? You will need a bolt-hole to run to - to escape capture by the Russians. On your way to meet the Allies your route to freedom may well be via Switzerland.'

Nothing demonstrated more dramatically the changed relationship between the two men than their postures. While Schellenberg sagged in his armchair, one hand holding his empty glass of brandy, Masson sat erect like a judge, his expression stern.

'We know,' Masson pounded on, 'that with the encouragement and full backing of Himmler, you have already made fruitless overtures to the Allies - trying to come to an arrangement with them which would close out the Soviets..

It was true. Archives which have since come to light prove that as early as the end of '43 Himmler authorized Schellenberg to put out tentative peace feelers to the British. Himmler was taking no risks. If by chance the Fuhrer had ferreted out this treachery, Reichsfuhrer Himmler could have disowned all knowledge of what his deputy was up to.

'That bloody Casablanca announcement. Unconditional surrender,' growled Schellenberg. 'It stiffens the resistance of our people. Crazy! Crazy! Doesn't Churchill know the menace the West faces from the Bolsheviks?'

'Churchill knows,' Masson replied. 'Three thousand five hundred miles away from Europe, Roosevelt does not know. You will need your bolt-hole, my friend. One of these days. This part of our conversation I shall not report to my Commander-in-Chief, General Guisan...'

'I am grateful.. Schellenberg was reduced to gratitude. He made one last effort. 'You refuse to name the Soviet spy? Soon I must leave...'

'In that, I cannot help you.'

And although Schellenberg never believed it, Masson spoke the truth. He hadn't a cat's idea in hell as to the true identity of Woodpecker.

In Jerusalem, Sergeant Mulligan drove Carson back to the barracks at high speed through the darkened streets. The jeep did not slacken pace at corners. To Carson they seemed to skid round them on two wheels.

'You always drive like this?' he asked mildly.

'At night, yes. You don't want a grenade lobbed at us, do you? Corners are dangerous.'

'As bad as that?'

'Worse. Here we are, thank God.'

Mulligan's first action at two in the morning was to put out a full alert for Victor Vlacek. He had a complete description, obtained from Harrington in Cairo. Slamming down the 'phone, he looked across the table at Carson who was looking round the bare room.

'I can't guarantee anything,' he warned. 'He could slip over the border into Syria just like that. They'll

warn the Free French, but why should they care?'

'Indeed, why should they?' Carson agreed wearily.

Vlacek was, in fact, never seen again. It was assumed he had crossed into Syria. From there he could so easily have travelled north, crossed the long Turkish frontier and made his way into the Soviet republic of Armenia.

As dawn cast its first ominous light over Palestine, the man called Moshe - who many years later occupied a high position in the Israeli government - was in position concealed behind a cluster of rocks above the road from Lydda to Jerusalem. He adjusted his field-glasses, and Lydda Airport jumped forward in the twin lenses. Moshe settled down for a long wait. This was the day.

Chapter Forty-One

Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith, a small, compact man who sported a small, dark, neat moustache sat behind the controls as he flew the Dakota across the Mediterranean towards Yugoslavia. A conceited bastard - in the opinion of his colleagues - he was also endowed with guts.

At Benina airfield in Libya he had sprung his decision in the mess at the last moment. Normally, an officer of his rank would not have undertaken the mission.

'Is that wise?' the station commander had enquired.

'And who is interested in your wisdom?' Murray- Smith had rapped back. 'I'm in charge of this show. I'm taking the Dak myself,' he repeated. 'God knows they've been trying to get this poor swine, Lindsay, out of the shit long enough.'

'It's your decision.'

'Nice to know you've grasped the situation so rapidly. Conway can be my co-pilot. All right, Conway? Happy, Then smile, blast you!

'Whisky' Conway, nick-named for an obvious liking, had been anything but happy and suspected he

had been chosen out of sheer malice. Murray-Smith had recently overheard himself referred to in one of

Conway's more inebriated moments as 'that Pocket Fuhrer'.

As the plane flew on at ten thousand feet Conway, acting as map-reader, had a large-scale map spread out over his lap. He didn't know it but this was the reason Murray-Smith had press-ganged him into the job; he was probably the most brilliant navigator between Algiers and Cairo.

'Looks as though the Met stupes got it right for once,' remarked Murray-Smith. 'Sheer bloody fluke, of course...'

The sky was an empty sea of pale blue without a wisp of cloud in sight. Below them the Med was another equally deserted and calm sea of deeper blue. Murray-Smith checked his watch. He never trusted the flaming instrument panel when there were alternative aids at his disposal. He was a terror with the ground staff.

'I have to pilot this flying coffin,' was his favourite phrase. 'You keep both bloody feet safely on
terra
firma
, Corporal,' he had told the mechanic before takeoff. 'One screw loose, up here...' He had tapped his head. '... Or inside here..' He had slapped his hand against the fuselage... 'And I'm a goner.'

Oh, Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith was the cherry on the cake in his world. People ran when they saw him coming — in the opposite direction.

'Be there in sixty min. Agreed, Conway?' he asked as he banked the machine a sliver to maintain course.

'Sixty minutes, sir, and we land in The Cauldron...'

'Heljec, or whatever your bloody name is, here we come!' Murray-Smith shouted. 'We've got the guns, you've got the man, so no frigging about...`

Oh, Christ, thought Conway, he's enjoying himself.

Hartmann and Paco had walked slowly along the full length of the makeshift airstrip, followed by a rebellious Heljec while they examined every inch of the ground. The German had imposed his personality on the Partisan leader, stopping every now and again to insist on the removal of a rock projecting a few centimetres above the surface. Paco acted as interpreter. Afterwards the defective patch had to be filled in with grit and hard-packed soil from a large wicker basket two Partisans carried.

'No wonder they never get anywhere in this benighted country,' Hartmann grumbled. 'Sloppy. I'm sorry, I'm talking about your home...`

'I'm half-English,' she reminded him. 'And I don't think I'm going to want to come back here. Ever. I can't get out of my mind what the Amazon Brigade did.'

'Go and cheer up Lindsay...'

'When we've finished this job. The plane should be here soon. It's nearly eleven o'clock.'

Lindsay, aware that Hartmann was doing the job he should have attended to, sat on a rock feeling exhausted. The glandular fever was sapping him again. He cursed the timing. Dr Macek appeared from

behind a boulder and felt his forehead.

'We are not feeling in love with the world?' he enquired.

'Not too bad. I should be over there, with Hartmann and Paco.'

'No temperature. A period of convalescence is needed. It is good that the plane is coming after so many months...'

'I want to thank you for all you have done...'

'But it is my profession. Thank me by resting when you arrive at your destination. Maybe we shall meet again one day.'

'Somehow I don't think so...'

Macek nodded, a smile on his gentle face, and walked away. The whole plateau was deserted in the brilliant morning light apart from the group checking and putting finishing touches to the airstrip. Heljec had cleared the plateau of men and weapons, concentrating them on the rim at the head of ravines - inside the ravines - leading up to the plateau. He was convinced he had sealed off all approaches to his temporary stronghold.

Lindsay made the effort, forced himself up off the rock and trod step by dragging step towards the airstrip. He used the stick Milic had fashioned for him. Poor Milic, killed in the German mortar attack a hundred years ago. Milic who was never mentioned, whose existence most of the Partisans had forgotten. 'How's it going, Hartmann?' he called out. 'Plane's due soon now, isn't it?'

'The airstrip is level, my friend,' the German replied. 'As level as it ever will be. And yes, the Dakota should arrive any moment if it's on time.'

'If it ever finds us, you mean.'

'Surely you have faith in the RAF?' Hartmann spoke jocularly, realizing what the walk was costing Lindsay. He deliberately made no attempt to help the Englishman: Lindsay wouldn't welcome being treated as a cripple. 'He will come in from the south, so that is the direction we should watch...'

'I'm as nervous as a girl about to have her first baby,' Paco said. 'Isn't it ridiculous?'