Where Eagles Dare

by Алистер Маклин

  As his cable-car approached the header station, Smith edged well forward to clear the lip of the roof. From where he crouched it was impossible to see the east wing of the Schloss Adler but if the columns of dense smoke now drifting across the valley were anything to go by, the fire seemed to have an unshakable hold. Clouds were again moving across the moon and this could be both a good thing and a bad thing: a good thing in that it would afford them cover and help obscure those dense clouds of smoke, a bad thing in that it was bound to high-light the flames from the burning castle. It could only be a matter of time, Smith reflected, before the attention of someone in the village or the barracks beyond was caught by the fire or the smoke. Or, he thought grimly, by the increasing number of muffled explosions coming from the castle itself. He wondered what might be the cause of them: Schaffer hadn't had the time to lay all those distractions.

  The roof of the cable-car cleared the level of the floor of the header station and Smith sagged in relief as he saw the figure standing by the controls of the winch. Schaffer. A rather battered and bent Schaffer, it was true, an unsteady Schaffer, a Schaffer with one side of his face masked in blood, a Schaffer who from his peering and screwed-up expression had obviously some difficulty in focusing his gaze. But undoubtedly Schaffer and as nearly a going concern as made no odds. Smith felt energy flow back into him, he hadn't realised just how heavily he had come to depend on the American: with Schaffer by his side it was going to take a great deal to stop them now.

  Smith glanced up as the roof of the header station came into view. Mary and Carnaby-Jones were still there, pressed back against the castle wall. He lifted a hand in greeting, but they gave no sign in return. Ghosts returning from the dead, Smith thought wryly, weren't usually greeted by a wave of the hand.

  Schaffer, for all the trouble he was having with his eyes and his still obviously dazed condition, seemed to handle the winch controls immaculately. It may have been—and probably was—the veriest fluke, but he put the gear lever in neutral and applied the brake to bring the cable-car to rest exactly halfway in under the lip of the roof. First Mary and then Jones came sliding down the nylon rope on to the roof of the car, Jones with his eyes screwed tightly shut. Neither of them spoke a word, not even when Schaffer had brought them up inside and they had slid down on to the floor of the station.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Smith flung open the rear door of the cable car. “Inside, all of you!” He retrieved Schaffer's Luger from the floor, then whirled round as he heard the furious barking of dogs followed by the sound of heavy sledges battering against the iron door leading from the station. The first of the two defences must have been carried away: now the second was under siege.

  Mary and a stumbling Schaffer were already inside the cable-car. Jones, however, had made no move to go. He stood there, Smith's Schmeisser in his hand, listening to the furious hammering on the door. His face seemed unconcerned. He said, apologetically: “I'm not very good at heights, I'm afraid. But this is different.”

  “Get inside!” Smith almost hissed the words.

  “No.” Jones shook his head. “You hear. They'll be through any minute. I'll stay.”

  “For God's sake!” Smith shouted in exasperation.

  “I'm twenty years older than any of you.”

  “Well, there's that.” Smith nodded consideringly, held out his right hand, said, “Mr. Jones. Good luck,” brought across his left hand and half-dragged, half-carried the dazed Jones into the cable-car. Smith moved quickly across to the controls, engaged gear all the way, released the handbrake and ran after the moving car.

  As they moved out from below the roof of the station, the sound of the assault on the inner door seemed to double in its intensity. In the Schloss Adler, Smith reflected, there would be neither pneumatic chisels nor oxy-acetylene equipment for there could be no conceivable call for either, but, even so, it didn't seem to matter: with all the best will in the world a couple of iron hasps couldn't for long withstand an attack of that nature. Thoughtfully, Smith closed the rear door. Schaffer was seated, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Mary was kneeling on the floor, Jones's head in her lap, looking down at the handsome silvery-haired head. He couldn't see her expression but was dolefully certain that she was even then preparing a homily about the shortcomings of bullies who went around clobbering elderly and defenceless American actors. Almost two minutes passed in complete silence before Carnaby-Jones stirred, and, when he did, Mary herself stirred and looked up at Smith. To his astonishment, she had a half-smile on her face.

  “It's all right,” she said. “I've counted ten. In the circumstances, it was the only argument to use.” She paused and the smile faded. “I thought you were gone then.”

  “You weren't the only one. After this I retire. I've used up a lifetime's luck in the past fifteen minutes. You're not looking so bright yourself.”

  “I'm not feeling so bright.” Her face was pale and strained as she braced herself against the wild lurching of the cable-car. “If you want to know, I'm sea-sick. I don't go much on this form of travel.”

  Smith tapped the roof. “You want to try travelling steerage on one of those,” he said feelingly. “You'd never complain about first-class travel again. Ah! Pylon number two coming up. Almost half-way.”

  “Only half-way.” A pause. “What happens if they break through that door up there?”

  “Reverse the gear lever and up we go.”

  “Like it or not?”

  “Like it or not.”

  Carnaby-Jones struggled slowly to a sitting position, gazed uncomprehendingly around him until he realised where he was, rubbed his jaw tenderly and said to Smith: “That was a dirty trick.”

  “It was all of that,” Smith acknowledged. “I'm sorry.”

  “I'm not.” Jones smiled shakily. “Somehow, I don't really think I'm cut out to be a hero.”

  “Neither am I, brother, neither am I,” Schaffer said mournfully. He lifted his head from his hands and looked slowly around. His eyes were still glassy and only partially focusing but a little colour was returning to his right cheek, the one that wasn't masked in blood. “Our three friends. What became of our three friends?”

  “Dead.”

  “Dead?” Schaffer groaned and shook his head. “Tell me about it sometime. But not now.”

  “He doesn't know what he's missing,” Smith said un-sympathetically. “The drama of it all escapes him, which is perhaps just as well. Is the door up above there still standing or are the hinges or padlocks going? Is someone rushing towards the winch controls—Is there—”

  “Stop it!” Mary's voice was sharp, high-pitched and carried overtones-of hysteria. “Stop talking like that!”

  “Sorry,” Smith said contritely. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Just whistling in the dark, that's all. Here comes the last pylon. Another minute or so and we're home and dry.”

  “Home and dry,” Schaffer said bitterly. “Wait till I have that Savoy Grill menu in my hand. Then I'll be home and dry.”

  “Some people are always thinking of their stomachs,” Smith observed. At that moment he was thinking of his own and it didn't feel any too good. No stomach does when it feels as if it has a solid lead ball, a chilled lead ball lodged in it with an icy hand squeezing from the outside. His heart was thumping slowly, heavily, painfully in his chest and he was having difficulty in speaking for all the saliva seemed to have evaporated from his mouth. He became suddenly aware that he was unconsciously leaning backward, bracing himself for the moment when the cable-car jerked to a stand-still then started climbing back up to the Schloss Adler again. I'll count to ten, he said to himself, then if we get that far without being checked, I'll count to nine, and then—And then he caught sight of Mary's face, a dead-white, scared and almost haggard face that made her look fifteen years older than she was, and felt suddenly ashamed of himself. He sat on the bench, and squeezed her shoulder. “We'll be all right,” he said confidently. All of a sudden he found it easy to
speak again. “Uncle John has just said so, hasn't he? You wait and see.”

  She looked up at him, trying to smile. “Is Uncle John always right?”

  “Always,” Smith said firmly.

  Twenty seconds passed. Smith rose to his feet, walked to the front of the cable-car and peered down. Though the moon was obscured he could just dimly discern the shape of the lower station. He turned to look at the others. They were all looking at him.

  “Not much more than a hundred feet to go,” Smith said. “I'm going to open that door in a minute. Well, a few seconds. By that time we won't be much more than fifteen feet above the ground. Twenty, at the most. If the car stops, we jump. There's two or three feet of snow down there. Should cushion our fall enough to give an even chance of not breaking anything.”

  Schaffer parted his lips to make some suitable remark, thought better of it and returned head to hands in weary silence. Smith opened the leading door, did his best to ignore the icy blast of wind that gusted in through the opening, and looked vertically downwards, realising that he had been over-optimistic in his assessment of the distance between cable-car and ground. The distance was at least fifty feet, a distance sufficient to arouse in even the most optimistic mind dismaying thoughts of fractured femurs and tibias. And then he dismissed the thought, for an even more dismaying factor had now to be taken into consideration: in the far distance could be heard the sound of sirens, in the far distance could be seen the wavering beams of approaching headlamps. Schaffer lifted his head. The muzziness had now left him, even if his sore head had not.

  “Enter, left, reinforcements,” he announced. “This wasn't on the schedule, boss. Radio gone, telephone gone, helicopter gone—”

  “Just old-fashioned.” Smith pointed towards the rear window. “They're using smoke signals.”

  “Jeez!” Schaffer stared out the rear windows, his voice awe struck. “For stone, it sure burns good!”

  Schaffer was in no way exaggerating. For stone, it burnt magnificently. The Schloss Adler was well and truly alight, a conflagration in which smoke had suddenly become an inconsiderable and, indeed, a very minor element. It was wreathed in flames, almost lost to sight in flames, towering flames that now reached up almost to the top of the great round tower to the north-east. Perched on its volcanic plug half-way up the mountain-side against the dimly seen backdrop of the unseen heights of the Weissspitze, the blazing castle, its effulgence now beginning to light up the entire valley and quite drowning out the pale light of a moon again showing through, was an incredibly fantastic sight from some equally incredible and fantastic fairy tale.

  “One trusts that they are well insured,” Schaffer said. He was on his feet now, peering down towards the lower station. “How far, boss? And how far down?”

  “Thirty feet. Maybe twenty-five. And fifteen feet down.” The lights of the leading cars were passing the still smouldering embers of the station. “We have it made, Lieutenant Schaffer.”

  “We have it made.” Schaffer cursed and staggered as the car jerked to a violent and abrupt stop. “Almost, that is.”

  “All out!” Smith shouted. “All out!”

  “There speaks the eternal shop steward,” Schaffer said. “Stand back, I've got two good hands.” He brushed by Smith, clutched the door jamb with his left hand, pulled Mary towards him, transferred his grip from waist to wrist and dropped her out through the leading door, lowering her as far as the stretch of his left arm would permit. When he let her go, she had less than three feet to fall. Within three seconds he had done the same with Carnaby-Jones. The cable-car jerked and started to move back up the valley. Schaffer practically bundled Smith out of the car, wincing in pain as he momentarily took all of Smith's two hundred pound weight, then slid out of the doorway himself, hung momentarily from the doorway at the full stretch of his arms, then dropped six feet into the soft yielding snow. He staggered, but maintained balance.

  Smith was beside him. He had fished out a plastic explosive from the bag on his back and torn off the friction fuse. He handed the package to Schaffer and said: “You have a good right arm.”

  “I have a good right arm. Horses, no. Baseball, yes.” Schaffer took aim and lobbed the explosive neatly through the doorway of the disappearing cable-car. “Like that?”

  “Like that. Come on.” Smith, turned and, catching Mary by the arm while Schaffer hustled Carnaby-Jones along, ran down the side of the lower station and into the shelter of the nearest house bare seconds before a command car, followed by several trucks crammed with soldiers, slid to a skidding halt below the lower station. Soldiers piled out of the trucks, following an officer, clearly identifiable as Colonel Weissner, up the steps into the lower station.

  The castle burned more fiercely than ever, a fire obviously totally out of control. Suddenly, there was the sharp crack of an explosion and the ascending cable-car burst into flames. The car, half-way up to the first pylon, swung in great arcs across the valley, its flames fanned by the wind, and climbed steadily upwards into the sky until its flame was lost in the greater flame of the Schloss Adler.

  Crouched in the shelter of the house, Schaffer touched Smith's arm. “Sure you wouldn't like to go and burn down the station as well?”

  “Come on,” Smith said. “The garage.”

  Colonel Wyatt-Turner leaned over in the co-pilot's seat, pressed his face against the side-screen and stared down unhappily at the ground. The Mosquito bomber, all engines and plywood, was, he was well aware, the fastest warplane in the world: even so, he hadn't been prepared for anything quite so fast as this.

  Normal flying, of course, imparts no sensation of speed, but then, Wing Commander Carpenter wasn't engaged in normal flying; he was engaged in what Wyatt-Turner regarded as highly abnormal flying and flying, moreover, that was liable to bring them to disaster at any second. Carpenter was giving a ground-level performance of some spectacular note, skimming across fields, brushing tree-tops, skirting small hills that stood in his way, and Wyatt-Turner didn't like any of it one little bit. What he liked even less was the appalling speed of their own moon-shadow flitting over the ground beneath them; and what he liked least of all was the increasing number of occasions on which plane and shadow came within almost touching distance of each other. In an effort to keep his mind off what must inevitably happen when and if the gap were finally closed he withdrew his almost mesmerised stare and glanced at his watch.

  “Twenty-five minutes.” He looked at the relaxed figure in the pilot's seat, at the world-weary face that contrasted so oddly with the magnificent panache of the red handlebar moustache. “Can you make it in time?”

  “I can make it,” Carpenter said comfortably. “Point is, will they?”

  “God only knows. I don't see how they can. Both the Admiral and I are convinced that they're trapped in the Schloss Adler. Besides, the whole countryside must be up in arms by this time. What chance can they have?”

  “And that is why you came?”

  “I sent them,” Wyatt-Turner said emptily. He glanced through the side-screen and recoiled as plane and shadow seemed to touch as they skimmed over the top of a pine forest. He said plaintively: “Must you fly so close to the damned ground?”

  “Enemy radar, old chap,” Carpenter said soothingly. “We're safer down here among the bushes.”

  Smith, with Mary and Jones behind him and Schaffer bringing up the rear, skirted the backs of the houses on the east side of the village street and cautiously made their way through the automobile junkyard to the rear double doors of Sulz's garage. Smith had his skeleton keys in his hand and was just reaching for the padlock when one of the doors opened quietly inwards. Heidi stood there. She stared at them as if they were creatures from another world, then up at the burning castle, then wordlessly, questioningly, at Smith.

  “All here in black and white.” Smith patted his tunic. “Into the bus.”

  Smith waited till they had filed through the door, closed it, crossed to a small barred window at the front o
f the garage and peered out cautiously.

  The street was packed with a milling crowd of people, most of them soldiers, nearly all unarmed men who had come hurrying out from the various Weinstuben to watch the burning Schloss Adler. But there were plenty of armed soldiers nearby—two truck-loads not thirty yards from the garage, not to mention three more truck-loads even farther up the street at the foot of the lower station. Farther down the street a motorcycle patrol was parked outside “Zum Wilden Hirsch”. The one real physical obstacle in the way of their escape was a small command car, manned, parked directly outside the doors of Sulz's garage. Smith looked at the car thoughtfully, decided that this was an obstacle that could be overcome. He withdrew from the window and crossed over to the doors to check that the four bolts were still withdrawn.

  Mary and Carnaby-Jones had already made their way into the bus. As Heidi went to follow, Schaffer caught her by the shoulders, kissed her briefly and smiled at her. She looked at him in surprise.

  “Well, aren't you glad to see me?” Schaffer demanded. “I've had a terrible time up there. Good God, girl, I might have been killed.”

  “Not as handsome as you were two hours ago.” She smiled, gently touched his face where Carraciola's handiwork with the Schmeisser had left its bloody mark, and added over her shoulder as she climbed into the bus: “And that's as long as you've known me.”

  “Two hours! I've aged twenty years tonight. And that, lady, is one helluva long courtship. Oh, God!” He watched in wearily resigned despair as Smith climbed into the driver's seat and switched on the ignition. “Here we go for another twenty. On the floor, everyone.”

  “How about you?” Heidi asked.

  “Me?” Schaffer's surprise seemed genuine. He smashed the front window with the butt of the Schmeisser, reversed the gun, released the trigger and knelt on the floor. “I'm the conductor. It's against regulations.”

  The middle finger of Smith's blood-stained, bandaged hand readied for the starter button and the big diesel caught at once. Smith started to back towards the rear of the garage. Two perfectly good cars, a Mercedes and an Opel, lay in his way and by the time that Smith—whose expression betrayed no awareness of their presence—reached the back of the garage neither were fit for anything other than the scrap-heap that lay beyond the rear doors. Smith stopped, engaged first gear, revved up the engine and let in the clutch with a bang. The bus jerked forward, gathering speed as it went.