Where Eagles Dare

by Алистер Маклин

  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 b
ack 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.”

  Chapter 9

  Smith halted outside the door marked RADIO RAUM, held up his hand for s
ilence, 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.