He had no idea how long he walked. It was some time. The wind howled around him and the snow turned him into a white, ghost-like figure. Finally, he was free of the trees, and he came upon a large flat snow-covered surface which he guessed would be the lawn, surrounding the Château.
It was then that he saw the house: a big, rambling building with turrets: a typical Swiss Château, three storeys high with narrow windows, some of which were showing lights.
A feeling of danger made him pause. He drew back and stood by a snow-covered fir tree and looked towards the Château. He stood motionless, watching, unaware of the coating of snow that built over him. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he was thankful he had made no attempt to cross the coverless space ahead of him. He saw a movement near the Château, and peering into the driving snow, he saw a figure of a man walking with bent head around the outside. Then he saw other figures standing against the walls, sentinels, spaced widely apart, facing him and sinister enough to make him step further back into the shelter of the forest.
He remained watching for some twenty minutes until the cold began to creep up his legs and chill his body. Then, satisfied he had seen enough, he headed back to the wall.
He had difficulty in finding the mark he had left on top of the wall. In a few more minutes, the snow would have obliterated his landfall.
He called softly, ‘Baumann?’
‘Right here,’ Baumann replied from the other side and a rope snaked over the wall, the end dropping at Cade’s feet.
It took him several minutes to haul himself up and he was so out of condition, he had to rest on top while his breath rasped at the back of his throat and his heart slammed against his ribs. Finally, in control of himself, he dropped down beside Baumann.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Baumann said angrily. ‘I told you to wait.’
‘So you did,’ Cade said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They walked in silence to the Jaguar, then shaking off the snow that covered their clothes, they got into the welcome warmth of the car.
‘What’s cooking?’ Baumann asked as he began to drive back to the hotel.
‘Something,’ Cade returned. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get back to our room.’
A few minutes later, Baumann pulled up outside the hotel and the two men entered the warm, brightly lit lobby. The manager of the hotel, Willi Tanz, a pudgy, smiling Swiss and a good friend of Baumann’s came from behind the reception desk.
‘Horst you haven’t completed the usual police cards for your friend and Mr. Sherman. Would you do that for me?’
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ Baumann said. ‘Give them to me. I’ll take them up with me.’
Tanz gave him the two cards, then nodding, Baumann led the way to the lift. Up in their sitting-room, Baumann began to strip off his ski-ing clothes.
‘Well? Come on, Cade, don’t be so damn mysterious.’
Cade had taken off his windcheater and now, sitting before the fire, he began to take off his boots.
‘There are about a dozen armed men patrolling the grounds of the Château,’ he said. ‘At least two have automatic rifles.’
Baumann gaped at him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I watched them for a good twenty minutes. I am sure.’
Well, what do you know?’ Baumann kicked off his boots. He pushed his stockinged feet towards the fire. ‘But why?’
Cade shrugged.
‘How’s the barometer?’
Baumann got to his feet, went over to the telephone and asked the desk about the weather, listened, grunted and hung up.
‘It’s rising. Should be fine tomorrow.’
‘There’s a big Arolla pine tree at the edge of the forest,’ Cade said. ‘It faces the Château. It’s my only hope to get pictures. There’s a terrace on the second floor. If it is sunny tomorrow, Anita might possibly come out on the terrace. I can’t see any other way I can get pictures. I’ll need a 600 mm Tele Rokkor lens. Where can I get one?’
‘What about these armed men?’
‘Never mind about them. Concentrate on the lens.’
Baumann thought for a moment, then looked at his wrist watch. The time was a few minutes after midnight.
‘I can get you one tomorrow some time.’
‘I want to be up that tree with my equipment before daylight.’
Baumann frowned, then crossed to the telephone, dialled a number, waited, then spoke in a low voice. Cade didn’t bother to listen. He moved close to the fire, his mind busy with the technical difficulties that faced him of getting good pictures of the terrace. With the Rokkor lens, he decided he could get good close-up photographs always providing the sun was warm enough to tempt Anita out onto the terrace.
‘I’ll send Grau,’ Baumann said as he hung up. ‘I have a friend who owns a photographic shop in Montreux. He has the lens. Grau will have it here in less than three hours.’
He went into Grau’s bedroom and got him out of bed. Grau cursed when he was told he had to go right away to Montreux, but after a brief delay while he struggled into his clothes, he went off.
Cade had brought his camera equipment from his bedroom into the sitting-room. He began loading film into his Minolta.
‘I’ll need enough sandwiches to last me for twelve hours, coffee, a half-bottle of brandy, some thin cord, three metres of knotted rope, a good hunting knife and a set of climbing irons,’ he said. ‘That tree isn’t going to be easy to climb, but once I’m up, I’m not likely to be seen.’
Baumann nodded. For the first time since he had met Cade, he looked animated.
‘I’ll fix all that for you. Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m going to bed. Call me at six o’clock. That’ll be time enough.’
‘Do you want me with you?’
‘Once I’m up the tree, I’ll be better on my own, but I might have to get out fast. How can we keep in touch?’
‘I have a two way radio you can take with you. It’ll be heavy, but it is the safest way for us to keep in touch. How’s that?’
‘Fine. You’ll have to come over the wall with me. If it stops snowing, you’ll have to wipe out our prints and you can help carry the gear, then you can leave me.’
A little after 06.00 hours the following morning, Cade and Baumann left the hotel. Grau had got the Rokkor lens and Baumann had collected the various things Cade had asked for: these he had packed into a rucksack which Cade carried. It was now no longer snowing, and the moon, riding high, cast a brilliant light over the white landscape. It was frosty and well below freezing, the road surface was dangerously slippery.
They stopped beside Sherman’s Simca, still parked off the road. Baumann told him about the armed men guarding the Château.
‘What’s the idea?’ Sherman asked, looking startled.
‘That’s what we are going to find out,’ Baumann said. ‘You are to wait this side of the wall. When I return, it’s your job to throw me the rope. So keep awake.’
Baumann led the way to the wall, hoisted Cade up and then Sherman hoisted Baumann up beside Cade. Sherman tied the rucksack, Cade’s camera equipment and the short wave receiver to the end of the rope and Baumann hauled them up. The two men slid over the wall and cautiously moved off through the dark forest. They walked one behind the other, Baumann careful to step into Cade’s deep footprints.
Finally, Cade said softly, ‘We’re not far off. Watch out.’
Baumann grunted. They could see through the trees the snow-covered lawn ahead of them, dazzlingly white in the moonlight.
Cade continued more slowly until he reached the tall Arolla pine tree he had noticed during the night.
‘See them?’ he whispered and pointed across the lawn.
Baumann’s breath hissed in sharply as he saw the sentinels. They were spaced some ten metres apart: dark, motionless figures, holding rifles and looking towards the forest.
Cade stepped back into the shadows. He sat in the snow
and began to fix the climbing irons to his boots. His fingers were so cold he had difficulty in securing the straps.
Baumann said, ‘What the hell do you think they’re guarding?’ He was still staring across the lawn at the motionless men.
‘You make a guess,’ Cade said and stood up. He uncoiled the knotted rope, tossed one end over the nearest bough, then catching hold of the loop, he dug his climbing irons into the trunk of the tree and slowly, laboriously hauled himself up. He reached the lower branches, then paused. ‘Okay. Let’s have the equipment, then you get off,’ he said, astride a branch and leaning forward. ‘Make sure you get rid of our prints.’
Baumann attached the various things they had brought with them to the end of the rope and watched while Cade hauled them up into the tree. Then with a wave of his hand and a muttered “Good luck,” he moved off into the darkness, pausing at every step to wipe out their prints with a fir branch he had cut off.
Cade waited until Baumann was out of sight, then he began climbing. He moved cautiously to avoid knocking off the thick snow that covered the branches of the tree. Finally, nearly at the top of the tree, he was level with the big terrace under which the massive entrance to the Château was built.
He set up his light tripod, tying the legs to the fir branches, then he secured his rucksack to another branch and settled down to wait. After a cold, dull half hour, he switched on the short wave receiver and called Baumann.
‘Listening in,’ Baumann’s voice said immediately.
‘Keep that way,’ Cade said into the microphone. ‘I’m all set and waiting,’ then he switched off.
With nothing to do for at least four hours, he relaxed back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.
By 11.00 hours the sun was so warm that Cade discarded his windcheater. He had eaten some of his sandwiches and had drunk two cups of coffee, laced with brandy. He had now screwed his camera to the tripod and clipped the long Rokkor lens which, when he peered through the eye-piece, brought the terrace nearly on top of him. He could easily make out the cracks in the terrace wall and see the water dripping off the gutter as the snow began to melt.
Since the first light of dawn, he had been able to see the sentinels clearly. He counted nine of them: big, burly, heavily-built men, clad in black raincoats, rubber boots and plastic, black hoods.
Examining them through the 600 mm lens, he decided he had never seen such a tough bunch of men. He had been right about them carrying automatic rifles. When the sun came up, six of them went into the Château, the other three continued to patrol and Cade got the impression that they were very alert and watchful.
Around 10.00 hours, the french windows leading onto the terrace opened and an elderly man wearing a woollen cap pulled down over his ears and a shabby overcoat came out. He carried a long handled broom. He began to sweep the terrace clear of snow. Having completed his task, he set out four lounging chairs and carried out a wooden slatted table.
This activity encouraged Cade. He spent a little time focusing his camera on one of the chairs, making sure he would get needle-sharp photographs, then he replaced the lens cap and lit a cigarette.
During the wait between 10.00 hours and 11.00 hours he had a sudden scare. In the silence, he heard men’s voices directly below him talking in German. He stiffened and looked down, but the thickly interwoven branches of the tree made it impossible for him to see what was going on at ground level. It was irritating that he couldn’t see what was happening, but at the same time, reassuring to know that if these men looked up they couldn’t discover him. Finally, he heard the crunch of snow as the two unseen men moved away.
It wasn’t until the sun was directly overhead, and it had become really warm, that there, was any further activity. Suddenly the french windows opened and Anita Strelik came out onto the terrace. Watching her through the telescopic lens, Cade immediately recognised her. She was tall, blonde with an Ekberg bosom, flat Asian features and a lazy, tigerish walk that always excited her fans. She was wearing close fitting scarlet pants, a white sweater and her short blonde curls glittered in the sunshine.
Cade slightly altered the focusing ring of his camera, bringing her face into sharp focus. Through the powerful telephoto lens, he could see dark smudges under her eyes and sharply etched lines of weariness either side of her nose down to her full lips.
He leaned back, resting his hands on his knees and watched her. She sat in one of the lounging chairs, opened her bag and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. As she lit the cigarette, a man came out onto the terrace and joined her. He wore black skiing trousers and a black turtle-neck sweater: a man of middle height, his iron grey hair close cropped, his shoulders square, his bearing upright and military.
Cade peered at the man as he walked over to Anita who raised her hand, smiling at him. The man bent and kissed her fingers and Cade instinctively pressed the cable release. The focal plane shutter snapped across. The first photograph was taken.
He continued to stare at the man. Where had he seen him before? In the course of his work as a photographer, Cade had seen many famous personalities, and with growing excitement, he knew this man was famous, although for the moment he couldn’t place him. He peered through the eye-piece of the camera, shifting the Rokkor lens slightly as the man sat down by Anita’s side, then he stiffened, looked again at the hard, sun-tanned face that filled the focusing screen. His mind flashed back to two years ago when he had visited East Berlin and had taken a series of photographs for the Daily Telegraph’s Week-end Supplement. He remembered waiting for three cold, boring hours for the expected arrival of General Erich Hardenburg, Head of the East German Secret Police, and how, when the General eventually arrived, he had glared at Cade and refused to be photographed.
And here he was: the most dangerous and the most ruthless German since Himmler, whose cold, snake-like eyes seemed to be staring directly into Cade’s as Cade peered through the telephoto lens, a sudden chill crawling up his spine.
Hardenburg! Here with Anita Strelik! This couldn’t make more sensational news than if Garbo at the height of her fame had had a tryst with Himmler himself. So Braddock with his instinct for sensational news had guessed right!
This accounted for the armed men in the grounds of the Château: they would be members of Hardenburg’s Secret Police. Cade, suddenly apprehensive, looked at the patrolling men, aware that this could be his most dangerous assignment. He knew that if he were seen, none of these armed men would hesitate to shoot him. There would be no questions asked. A finger would tighten on a trigger, and that would be that.
He forced his mind back to the terrace. The elderly man who had swept the terrace came out, carrying a loaded tray and a silver coffee pot which he put on the table. He then went away.
Anita and Hardenburg were talking animatedly. Hardenburg got up to pour coffee while Cade continued to take photographs. He was satisfied in the brilliant sunshine he was getting the photographs he wanted.
Then the french windows opened wide and two men came out onto the terrace. One of them, a tall, gaunt-looking man of forty or so, wearing the same ski-ing outfit as Hardenburg was pushing a wheel chair in which a much older, fatter man sat.
Cade immediately recognised the gaunt man as Herman Lieven, Hardenburg’s right-hand man, who, two years ago, had been so rude to Cade when he told him the General was not to be photographed.
But it was the old man who held Cade’s rooted attention. He stared through the long focus lens, not believing his eyes, but knowing that there could not be another man who looked like Boris Duslowski. The fat, coarse face, although aged, still had the same arrogant, sneering character. The completely bald head, the pointed ears, the snarling bitter mouth made this man Duslowski, one time Stalin’s Chief of Police, terror of the Jews who had ranked in world opinion with the same feeling of revulsion and horror as the Beast of Belsen.
Cade’s instinct for headline news and his past training as a news hunter immediately told him he was wi
tnessing a historical event. This meeting of such ruthless men with the astonishing addition of one of the most famous international movie stars was an unique event of world-shaking proportions. Here was an enemy of the present Russian règime consorting with the man who controlled East Berlin and supposedly an ally of the Russian government.
In spite of his excitement and surprise, Cade continued to take photographs.
Hardenburg and Duslowski were now at the table. Lieven had returned to the Château. He came out again carrying a portfolio of papers which he laid on the table.
Anita got up and stood behind Hardenburg, her hand resting familiarly on his shoulder. Hardenburg took papers from the portfolio: one of them was a map. This he spread out on the table. The efficiency of the Rokker lens enabled Cade to see some of the details of the map which was of West Berlin. He suddenly realised he had finished one cartridge of film. He rewound the film and reloaded the camera.
The two men were talking earnestly together. Hardenburg was pointing out features on the map. Cade went on pressing the cable release, knowing his camera was making history, that the pictures he was obtaining were beyond price: far too important and explosive to sell to Whisper. These pictures had to go direct to the Secretary of State. No one should see them until he had seen them. Cade had sufficient political education to realise such pictures could give America a tremendous bargaining power with the Russians.
The men were still talking, still examining the various papers that Hardenburg had taken from the Portfolio when Cade had finished his second cartridge of film. He now had seventy-two explosive pictures, and that was enough. His one thought was to get away, get back to the hotel and get the pictures to the American Consul at Geneva.
He found he was shaking as he wound off the film. He put the second cartridge in his pocket, then took a long drink from the brandy bottle. As he put the cap back, the bottle slipped out of his frozen fingers and dropped through the fir branches into the snow below.
He remained motionless, his heart racing, cold chills crawling up his spine. If one of the guards passed and spotted the bottle!
Cade Page 16