“You don’t say.”
“Yes. Apparently a safe with some documents was hidden at the end of the war. The SSD want those documents — and only Mueller knew the hiding place.”
“Okay, don’t tell me,” said Ritchie wearily. “The safe is at the bottom of the Blindsee.”
The Director nodded.
“So what’s in it? What are the documents about?”
“That we don’t know.”
“Surely Mueller knows.”
“No. His task was simply to take the safe to its hiding place. However, we shall soon find out. I intend to get to that safe before Kohner’s people.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the FBI man.
“We’re doing all we can,” the Director said sharply. “Abteilung Eins have fixed it with the people in Munich. There will be a truck waiting at the airport loaded with all the equipment we asked for.”
“Good,” said Dingle. “Are our seats booked on the four o’clock flight?”
“Yes. The tickets are being picked up now,” answered his chief.
“And you’re coming with us sir?”
“I am. I have a score to settle with Kohner.”
Jason Ritchie stood up.
“I’d better get my report filed if we’re taking off for Munich in two hours,” he said. “See you later.” The Director waited until the door closed behind the American, then he turned to Dingle and Jones.
“I want it clearly understood,” he said, “that Mr. Ritchie must remain unaware of the existence of that list. When that safe is opened, Mr. Dingle, you must smuggle out the blue envelope. Perhaps when the time comes, Mr. Jones, you will distract Mr. Ritchie’s attention.”
*
2:30 p.m.
In Tel Aviv, the Israeli Intelligence Colonel angrily screwed up a piece of paper and threw it into the waste paper basket.
The major seated at the other side of the desk raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Bad news?”
“Those damned British. They’ve let Kohner slip through their fingers.”
“He’s escaped?”
“Yes… after all we did for them to get him over the Wall.”
“What about Mueller?”
“They’ve still got him. That’s something, I suppose. And they seem to think they can get Kohner back.”
*
3 p.m.
Mueller sat on the bed and stared at the white-washed wall. He was beginning to feel resentful towards the British. He’d co-operated with them – and now they’d locked him in this room. He’d given them invaluable information – and now they wouldn’t let him see Hilde. Thanks to him, the British would have a good start on Kohner. And yet the fat Englishman, the Director, who had been so charming and friendly before, had grown suddenly cold and distant – as though he actively disliked him.
Mueller’s resentment would have turned into anger… but the stronger and more familiar emotion of fear over-rode it.
Why should he feel afraid? The question puzzled him. He was safe now. He would never have to run or hide again. The Englishman had given his word.
Mueller stared at the white-washed wall; and as the minutes grew into hours, he became more and more uneasy.
*
6:15 p.m.
The plane was more than half an hour late when it touched down at Munich. Fortunately, Dingle who had his eyes shut, was unaware that there was a blinding snowstorm outside and that the pilot had been forced to make an instrument landing.
The Director and his party were met in the airport lounge by a smiling BND agent.
“A slight snag I’m afraid sir,” he said to the SS(0)S chief. “We’ve got everything our friends at Abteilung Eins asked for – except the underwater metal-detector. We’ve located one at Frankfurt and it will be here early in the morning.”
“Dammit man! We wanted to get started straight away,” the big Englishman fumed.
“With respect, sir,” said the BND man soothingly, “you wouldn’t get very far in this weather. The forecast for the morning is good, and so I’ve taken the liberty of arranging hotel accommodation for the night. There’s a car waiting.”
*
8:45 a.m.
The snowplows had done their work well and the road was clear as the 15cwt truck, with Dingle at the wheel, pulled out of the hotel courtyard and headed south.
The Director, in the passenger seat, looked up at the clear sky.
“The forecasters seem to be right for a change,” he growled. “Get a move on, James, we’ve lost enough time already. And switch that blasted heater on.”
Hunched up in their overcoats, Jones and Ritchie sat on the wooden bench seats in the back of the truck.
“That’s you and me boyo,” said the Welshman morosely. “Out in the bloody cold again.”
The FBI agent unwrapped a piece of chewing gum.
“I guess you’re right,” he said as the truck bounced over a particularly large bump. “And by the time this ride’s over we’re going to have mighty sore asses.”
“Never mind,” said Jones brightly. “If we’re good the boss will let us soothe them in the icy water of the Blindsee.”
*
9 a.m.
The Royal Military Police private carried Mueller’s breakfast in on a tray.
“Good morning sir. In case you haven’t found it, there’s shaving gear in that cupboard.”
“Why am I being kept locked up in isolation like this? When am I going to see my wife again?”
“Sorry sir. I’m not allowed to discuss anything with you.”
“Well, can I see the Director or someone else in authority?”
“I wouldn’t know sir. I’ll pass your message on to the sergeant.”
Mueller was left alone again with his fears.
*
9:15 a.m.
Kohner strode into his office in SSD headquarters and stabbed a fat forefinger at the intercom.
“Yes? Who is that?” His secretary sounded surprised.
“It’s me,” snarled Kohner. “Come in here, will you.”
The woman came in looking flustered.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought… well… Herr Scherl said you’d been kidnapped by the English.”
“Oh, did he. And where is Herr Scherl now?”
“In Brno.”
“Where?”
“Brno. In Czechoslovakia.
“What the devil is he doing there?”
“He’s preparing for a mission in Austria. He said that he was in charge during your absence and…
Kohner held up a hand for silence.
“…And he hopes that by pulling off a spectacular coup in Austria, he’ll qualify for my job permanently,” he finished for her. “I suppose he’s heading for the Blindsee?”
“I don’t know, sir, He didn’t say. All I know is that before flying to Brno, he telephoned ahead and arranged to have diving equipment and transport waiting for him.”
The fat man nodded, and thought for a few moments. “Are you in contact with him?”
“Yes sir.”
“Get him for me.”
“I can’t sir. Not yet. He should have left Brno by now to cross the border. He is going to ring me from Vienna.”
“I see.” Kohner considered again. “When he comes through, tell him I’m back and I want him to pick me up at Innsbruck airport. I’ll be waiting for him in the lounge.”
“Yes sir. He’ll be surprised.”
The SSD chief grinned crookedly.
“Won’t he just. Now you can book a flight for me to Innsbruck. Better do it via Prague and Vienna…” he tossed across the passport he’d just used to travel from Hamburg. “…in that name.”
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. Fetch me the tape of the interview I was doing when I was… er… taken ill. The details are a bit hazy.”
As the door was about to close behind the secretary, he called her back.
“By the way, how many men did Herr Scherl take with him?”
“Three I think. Yes, three.”
Kohner nodded.
“Good,” he said. “That should be enough.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dingle drove through Garmisch and headed for Griesen, eight miles away, where he crossed the border into Austria.
Passport formalities were quickly completed, but one of the Customs men who stuck his head into the back of the truck was curious about the diving gear.
Ritchie explained that they were planning to do some experimental winter diving, the Customs man said they must be mad, and Jones said plaintively that it was probably warmer in the water than in the back of the truck. The Customs man laughed and waved them on.
The road wound on through the Ausserfern district, below the gigantic West precipices of the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest mountain.
They crossed the Loisach several times, and ahead they could see the spectacular conical peak of the Sonnenspitze, which reminded Jones of a giant version of Cnicht in North Wales.
Passing the Ehrwald-Zugspitzbahn station, Dingle took the main road to Lermoos, at the southern edge of the Loisach valley. The Fern pass road began here and the Director heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that it had not been closed by the snow.
It was full of bends, but the road was magnificently engineered with maximum gradients of one in ten as it snaked up through the vast coniferous forests towards Biberwier.
Then, with their ears popping at 3,500 feet, they passed the Weissensee on their left. Shortly afterwards, to the right and below them, they saw the Blindsee. The map on the Director’s knee showed the lake to be at 3,625 feet.
Dingle pulled into the side of the road.
“Well, there it is,” he announced. “At least, I presume that flat area is the Blindsee.”
“That’s it all right,” said Jones, who had jumped out of the back of the truck and walked around to the driver’s window. “It looks as though all we’ve got to do is clear away the snow, cut a hole in the ice… and dive in.”
“Exactly!” snapped the Director. “So let’s get on with it. You’d better go back to the Weissensee, James. I noticed a camping site near there. We can get the truck off the road and hide it in the trees. There’s no point in leaving it on view to advertise our presence to Kohner and his men if they arrive.”
“That’s a hell of a long way from the Blindsee,” Jones pointed out. “How are we going to get all the equipment there?”
“Pull it on the sledges, Mr. Jones,” said the Director. “We’ll go across country.”
“You mean walk?”
The SS(0)S chief sighed.
“That’s what our feet were designed for Mr. Jones, so let’s use them. And if you don’t hurry up and get back on board, you’ll have an even longer walk.”
The Welshman climbed over the tailboard, slumped back on to his hard seat and stared glumly at Ritchie, who was still sitting there, chewing his gum.
“Sometimes,” he grumbled, “I think that fat bastard forgets I’ve only got one foot.”
*
Dingle, Jones and Jason Ritchie changed into their wet suits in the comparative warmth of the truck.
Outside, the temperature was below zero, but the exertion of dragging small sledges heavily loaded with diving gear soon banished the cold. Thick socks inside waterproof boots protected their feet as they trudged through the snow, and they wore fur-lined gloves.
They left the road at the southern end of the Blind-see, and slithered through the pine trees down the steep slope. Occasionally, one of the sledges would snag on a fallen branch or suddenly stick, nose deep, in soft snow. When this happened the Director, puffing and cursing, would help to free it. He was already too warm in his thick winter clothing, topped by an anorak and waterproof trousers. A binocular dangled from his neck.
Eventually, the four men reached the lake and made their way along the eastern shore to the northern end which nestled in the shadow of the Grubigstein, which towered another 3,600 feet above them.
“This looks like the north-eastern tip of the lake to me,” said Ritchie, who was in the lead.
Dingle came to a halt behind him.
“I’d say you’re right, Son.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Jones and the Director moving slowly about a quarter of a mile away. “Glyn’s foot must be bothering him with this rough going,” he added. “I might as well mark the spot while we’re waiting.”
Still pulling his sledge, Dingle paced out thirteen yards along the northern shore. Then, using a compass, he paced a further sixty-five yards due south over the frozen lake. Leaving the sledge there, he walked straight back across the ice to Ritchie.
Soon, as the others drew closer, the Director’s bright red face and wheezing breath made it apparent that Jones’s false foot was not responsible for the delay.
“X marks the spot sir,” Dingle announced cheerfully, nodding towards the sledge.
“Good.” The SS(0)S chief eased his bulk thankfully on to the American’s sledge and looked anxiously up at the sky.
“It looks as if it might snow soon, so you two had better get ready. Mr. Jones, you might like to break a hole in the ice.”
Dingle helped the Welshman to tow his sledge out to where his own was already parked. While Jones used an axe to attack the frozen surface, Dingle carefully began to put on his diving gear, checking everything as he went – weight belt, knife, snorkel, axe, depth gauge and compass. He fitted the valves to the twin aluminium cylinder set, checked the air and adjusted the harness after lifting the pack into position on his back. As he put on fins, hood and mask, he noted that Ritchie was already kitted up and “duck flapping” towards him, accompanied by the Director.
Glyn Jones, who had finished making the hole, glanced towards the SS(0)S chief.
“I hope the ice will stand his weight,” he muttered under his breath.
“Funny how voices carry in this clear air,” growled the big man as he arrived, glaring at Jones.
Dingle grinned and winked at Jason Ritchie.
“Ready, Son?”
The American nodded and lifted the metal detector he was carrying.
“Ready. Shall I operate this thing while you shine the lamp?”
“Suits me,” answered the Englishman. “You ready, Glyn?”
Jones moved forward and fastened a light line to Dingle’s cylinder harness before passing a hitch around his upper arm.
“That’ll leave both your hands free Jim, but you should be able to feel my signals all right,” he said. “Don’t forget, if there’s an emergency and I want you up in a hurry, I’ll give three sharp tugs.”
Dingle nodded. Then clutching a sealed beam torch in one hand, and holding his mask and helmet in position with the other, he dropped through the hole in the icy floor.
Chapter Twenty
Dingle had braced himself, but even so the shock of that first entry was terrifying. Icy cold water penetrated his diving suit from several points at once. He began to shiver and the area around his mouth where he bit on the mouthpiece became numb.
But as he held his nose and blew, to equalize the air pressure, he quickly found that he had another worry. He was descending too fast, out of control.
Desperately he tried to force his frozen brain into action. The weights. That was it! He’d been warned to expect very strong “anti-gravitation” under the ice, which would make him drift to the surface – but he’d overdone it and used too many weights.
His hand moved down towards his belt, but it was too late. Suddenly he felt giddy, completely helpless… and worry gave way to panic.
And then he felt strong hands grasp his arm. Dimly he was aware of Jason Ritchie alongside him in a cloud of bubbles.
The American grabbed the line fastened around Dingle’s arm and pulled it
sharply, three times. Gently, he guided the disabled diver up towards the hole, while Jones pulled from above.
The Director leaned forward anxiously as two shiny black helmets broke the surface.
“James! Are you all right? What went wrong?” Dingle pushed up the mask and spat out the mouthpiece.
“Went down too quickly,” he gasped. “I think I’ve ruptured an eardrum, but I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is it cold in there boyo?” asked Jones anxiously.
“At first; but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.” He looked across to the American. “Thanks, Son. All set for another go?”
Ritchie nodded. “Lead the way.”
Dingle discarded some weights and dived once more. This time there were no mishaps. The ice above glowed in multi-shades of blue and green, but the light was dim and Dingle switched on the torch as they descended to the floor of the lake, which they noted was thirty-four feet deep at this point.
Carp and greenish-olive tench which had been sleeping under rocks and branches darted away as they were startled into wakefulness by the FBI agent’s probing metal detector.
*
The two men were amazed at the large assortment of metal objects hidden in the mud – but it was nearly twenty minutes before they found the safe.
Visibility was very poor now as the silt was disturbed more and more; but there could be no doubt as Dingle shone the lamp on the square object. It was a safe, and it looked in good condition.
The Englishman pointed upwards, and Ritchie nodded. While the British agent stayed with the safe, the American followed the guide line up to Jones.
“Have you found it?” asked the Welshman when Ritchie surfaced.
“Yeah, we’ve found it.” He handed out the metal detector. “We’ve finished with this. Give me a couple of those flotation bags, will you?”
The Director was smiling. “Well done, Mr. Ritchie. Are you going to raise it now?”
“We’re gonna try.”
“Have you got enough air left, or do you need to change cylinders yet?”
“We’re watching it. We’re having to use quite a bit of physical effort down there, and so we’re burning up a lot of air – but I guess we’ve got enough to last us another twenty-five minutes or so.”
A Time for Vengeance Page 10