“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.
Chapter 8
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 Rhineland, 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 armoury-cum-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 nightingal
e 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 Rolland, 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 Doberman 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 a
nd 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.
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