by Colin Forbes
He made it sound as though he were granting a condemned man his last request. Lindsay took the cigarette and used the German lighter he was accustoming himself to. He said nothing so Browne, who had hoped for some reaction, was compelled to go on.
'When you arrive at the Fuhrer's secret headquarters, your second task is to discover whether Hitler himself is personally directing military operations - or whether some field marshal is the real brain. If so, what is the identity of this man?'
'From some of the phraseology this sounds to come from pretty high up,' Lindsay observed.
'The origin of the directive is top secret. Having obtained this information - I gather the second bit is what they're really after - you then make your way back behind allied lines by whatever means possible, report your presence to us via the local commander-in-chief. We fly you home...'
'A piece of cake.'
'Really, Lindsay, I do hope you are not going to treat this mission in a flippant manner..
'For Christ's sake, Browne, you expect me to sit here shaking like a bloody road drill?'
'My rank is that of Colonel..
'And mine is that of Wing Commander..
'Which will prove helpful,' Brown said quickly, changing tack as he realized this RAF type might put in a complaint higher up than he dared to contemplate. 'They're bound to check up on you, put you under the microscope. The Allied order of battle documents you'll be taking may bolster your cover...'
'They're fake, I assume?' Lindsay queried as he eyed the package Brown had produced from a locked drawer. 'The Germans should have at least some information about General Alexander's troops.'
'Do let me put you completely in the picture, there's a good chap,' the Colonel said smugly. 'These documents...' he laid a fond hand on the package, 'list Alexander's present order of battle in Tunisia. You'll be perfectly safe.'
'You reassure, me mightily,' Lindsay responded.
'That bit about being perfectly safe where I'm going. And won't I be popular with Alexander - flying into enemy territory with that package in my hip pocket.'
Browne looked even smugger, if that were possible. 'That is the beauty of the whole plan.' He leaned back in his chair and smarmed his thinning hair with the palm of his lean hand. 'If they check with German HQ in Tunis they'll get confirmation that was our order of battle when you flew off to Germany. As soon as you fly off into the wild blue yonder Alex changes his troop dispositions. With a bit of luck Jerry will attack on the basis of what's inside this package - and come a real cropper.'
'So Alexander...'
'Is only too pleased to cooperate with us. That's how we got his go-ahead. Pretty neat, eh?'
'It would appear so.'
'To recap,' Browne concluded. 'Find out where Adolf is holed up, check on whether he's running the show himself - and if not, who is his pet commander. Also the peace mission business. Then use the underground, who'll be waiting, and dash for Switzerland.'
'A piece of cake: Lindsay repeated drily.
The Englishman jerked himself into the present as he felt the machine change angle into a gentle descent. They were coming in to land at Rangsdorf, the airfield closest to the Wolf's Lair. Where, he wondered, peering down, the hell was it? Below was a sea of dense pine forest, the branches encrusted with snow, a forest dimly seen beneath a lake of white mist and nowhere was there a sign of human habitation. Bauer's voice spoke in his earphones.
'Five minutes and we'll be down.'
'Not in that lot, I trust?' Lindsay responded with a touch of grim humour, holding the headset microphone close to his mouth.
He heard the pilot's amused chuckle followed by his response. 'The radio works - none of those damned Bavarian Alps round here. I've contacted the airstrip and we're cleared to land. Watch my smoke!'
The airstrip appeared suddenly in a large clearing which seemed bereft of buildings, which struck Lindsay as strange. Where was the f-ff'ing control tower? It was a beautiful landing - Lindsay's professional expertise gave the German ten out of ten. The landing wheels kissed the earth and they glided along the runway.
Only at ground level did the buildings become visible. Their rooftops were camouflaged with netting entwined with creeper. Several even had plants growing on top. It was little wonder no one had so far spotted the Wolf's Lair from the air. Lindsay climbed out as soon as the plane was stationary - he had felt glued to his seat, petrified. First night nerves.
He thanked Bauer, shaking his hand warmly and genuinely as he congratulated him on his performance. The German made a self-deprecatory gesture but Lindsay could tell he was pleased.
'See you around.' Bauer grinned. 'How about a trip over the Russian front some time?'
'Some time..'
Lindsay turned his attention to the large Mercedes which had driven almost alongside the aircraft. A tall, good-looking man in army uniform greeted him, shooting out his right arm. 'Wing Commander Lindsay? I am Guensche, the Fuhrer's Adjutant. I am instructed to escort you immediately to meet the Fuhrer who has just arrived from the Eastern front. Heil Hitler!'
The news of his coming had preceded him, Lindsay realized at once. He noticed that all round the hidden airstrip men had stopped their work to stare at him. A Luftwaffe officer checking a Condor - the plane which had flown in the Fuhrer from the Eastern Front? The twin of the machine Bauer had described as taking off earlier from the airstrip near the Berghof? A mechanic holding a cloth also paused to stare at him and inside the small control tower someone was using binoculars to study him. He was the star turn!
'Thank you, Guensche. Do you mind if I ride in front. Sitting alone in the back I'd feel like the King!'
'But certainly, Wing Commander!' Guensche closed the rear door he had opened and led him to the front passenger seat. 'You know,' he continued after getting in behind the wheel and starting up the motor, 'whenever the Fuhrer is driven anywhere he, too, always insists on sitting next to the driver. He is truly a man of the people. Like yourself, sir, if I may say so..'
Lindsay reflected it was all so different from what he had feared. He was making friends hand over fist, a feat a certain Colonel Dick Browne of Ryder Street, London, would have found difficult to emulate. The Adjutant drove with skill along tracks between walls of gloomy pines as he continued to talk, providing interesting information.
'At the moment there is much activity, comings and goings, alarms and excursions..'
'Nothing serious, I hope?' Lindsay enquired.
'In the end, no! I am thinking of yesterday - there was a loud explosion. Like a bomb dropping. Then we realized it was the usual thing - a fox setting off a mine. Although this must have been several of them setting off two or three mines - the detonation was so loud. Wing Commander, you must not wander about without a guide. The Wolf's Lair is heavily guarded by minefields. I see the first checkpoint coming up. Don't worry - there are two more before we are inside the Wolf's Lair...' Ian Lindsay was not worried. He was petrified.
Chapter Nine
Adjutant Guensche had escorted Lindsay through three different checkpoints. Before getting into the Mercedes the Englishman had stripped off his flying jacket and was wearing his RAF uniform. He was intrigued that there were no signs of hostility from the various guards who stared at him with curiosity. He also noted that even Guensche, who must be known to all of them, had to show his pass which carried his photograph.
'The security is very good,' he commented as the German switched off his engine after the third vetting.
'Even Keitel and Jodl have to show their special passes before they're allowed through,' Guensche told him. 'The only exception is the Fuhrer himself...'
The journey from the airstrip had been depressing - everywhere the pine forest dripping with moisture, indicating a rise in temperature, had closed round them. The coils of drifting mist slipping between the trees like a ghost army added to the atmosphere of oppressive desolation. Now that they had arrived at the Wolf's Lair Lindsay was even more surprised at his
primitive surroundings.
Beyond the wire they passed through was a jumbled collection of single-storey buildings which gave the impression they had been thrown up overnight. It reminded Lindsay of an army transit camp. The greatest attention seemed to have been paid to concealment.
As at Rangsdorf airstrip, the rooftops were covered skilfully with camouflage netting overlaid with creeper. The walls were painted in brown and green. Guensche turned and indicated a building they were approaching.
'The Lagebaracke - all military conferences are held either in there or in the Fuhrer's bunker. That building over there belongs to Field Marshal Keitel, that one is Jodl's. Martin Bormann's is outside. Speak of the devil..'
A short, overweight man in Nazi uniform had emerged through the doorway and stood respectfully to one side. Another man appeared, also in uniform. Lindsay could not prevent a brief stiffening of his muscles, then he forced himself to relax. The short man took up a position alongside his master and Lindsay was surprised to observe Bormann barely came up to Hitler's shoulder.
Bormann had seen Lindsay and said something to the Fuhrer, indicating the Englishman as the couple came closer to Guensche and his companion. He's telling him who I am, which is curious, Lindsay was thinking. Then, like the Adjutant, he shot out his right arm and held it at a motionless angle. His greeting coincided with Guensche's.
'Heil Hitler!'
The Fuhrer acknowledged the salute, his expression grim. Then the expression underwent a remarkable transformation. Lindsay - with his experience as an actor - was particularly well-equipped to appreciate the phenomenon.
The forbidding personality melted as Hitler held out his hand and shook Lindsay's. His smile was engaging, there was not a hint of affectation or condescension and he spoke as though addressing an old friend he was especially fond of.
'Welcome to my simple headquarters, Wing Commander. I look forward to our enjoying a long talk together. Before the war you were one of the few Englishmen who really understood what I was trying to do. Will you excuse me? I have had a tiring time and must rest...'
Then he was gone and two more men, both in military uniform, followed their leader out of the Lagebaracke. Guensche hardly moved his lips.
'The first one is Field Marshal Keitel. Very formal. The man behind is Colonel-General Alfred Jodl.'
Keitel was tall, heavily built, held his head high and had a trim moustache. He paused briefly, his manner arrogant and overbearing. Guensche had stiffened to attention.
'You are the English defector from the Berghof. You will hold yourself in readiness until the Fuhrer grants you a short interview.'
Having issued his diktat, Keitel marched off. Colonel-General Jodl was a very different man. He wore his peaked cap at a jaunty angle and there was an ironic expression in his eyes verging on amusement as he stopped and studied Lindsay. Lean-faced and clean-shaven, his manner was crisp but polite.
'Who do you think is winning this war?'
'God alone knows at the present stage..'
'I wish you had brought God with you then - so' we could consult him,' Jodl commented. He nodded to Guensche. 'Today's conference never got off the ground. Probably just as well - the generator is playing up. It was so dim in there you'd think it was night.' He turned back to Lindsay and again surprised him. 'Anything interesting in that packet you are hugging as though it contained the British Crown Jewels?'
'The Allied order of battle on the North African front.'
'In two hours come to see me! No one else has asked you about it? Not even the Fuhrer? Curious - he rarely misses a trick. You really should have brought God...'
Lindsay's mind was a whirlpool of conflicting impressions. He had a vivid picture of his brief meeting with Hitler. Recalling their long encounter before the war he had the oddest feeling - as though the
Fuhrer was exaggerating his earlier personality …'
Jodl left them with an expression of cynical disgust. Lindsay turned to check which were his quarters as Guensche spoke. 'He would be the one to notice that packet - except that I too would have expected the Fuhrer to ask the same question first. Ah, here we have someone more to your taste, I expect.'
'A slim, dark-haired girl with an excellent figure had come out of the Lagebaracke exit and was walking towards them slowly as though to give herself time to observe Lindsay. She swung her right arm; under her left she clutched a notebook.
'Christa Lundt, the Fuhrer's top secretary,' Guensche whispered. 'She was asking about you. I think you intrigued her.' He sighed. 'You should be so lucky.'
They sat facing each other across a table in the canteen and Christa Lundt immediately threw Ian Lindsay off balance. She had been sipping coffee when she asked the question.
'Are you really pro-Nazi, Wing Commander?'
She had asked the question in excellent English. Up to this moment they had conversed in German. Introduced to her by his escort, Guensche, Lindsay had been surprised when she suggested he should accompany her to the canteen inside which they were now sitting alone, apart from the waiter behind the bar who was too far away to overhear them.
'I was a member of the Anglo-German Fellowship before the war,' he replied and left the ball in her court as he drank more of his indifferent coffee.
He studied her, noted the strong nose, the firm chin and her large, slow-moving blue eyes. A tiny alarm bell was ringing at the back of his mind. All his defences were up, although nothing in his casual manner indicated his wariness.
'But that was before the war, as you say,' she continued in his native language. 'A lot of water has flowed under many bridges since those days...'
'And where did you learn to speak English so well, may I ask?' he enquired.
'Thus he evaded my question.' She smiled, a slow smile like the warming glow of a fire. 'I was eighteen when I spent time with a nice family in Guildford, Middlesex...'
'Guildford is in Surrey,' he said quickly.
'So, you are English - not a German posing as an Englishman.'
'And why should I do that in the name of sanity?'
She smiled again. He told himself to watch it. That smile of hers could undo a man. She even had a plausible reply for his fresh question.
'Because your German is so good and, if you won't think me impossibly rude, with your fair hair you look so Teutonic...'
'A worthy member of the master race?'
He was practising what he had been trained to do: carrying on a conversation with one part of his brain while the other part acted independently on a different channel - this talented and attractive creature was grilling him, carrying out an interrogation. Had Bormann put her up to it? That didn't quite fit - he could not have said why. He was deeply puzzled.
'A worthy member of the Anglo-German Fellowship,' she replied, her eyes holding his own. 'There's something odd about you, Wing Commander - just as odd things have been happening here before you landed at the end of the world.'
'What sort of odd things?'
He sounded uninterested, making conversation, but he had the uncomfortable sensation he was not fooling Christa Lundt. She had small, finely-wrought hands. Every movement was graceful. Her voice was soft and soothing. She lowered it even though the man behind the counter had moved even further way and was reading a newspaper.
'For one thing, there was a very loud explosion yesterday just before the' Fuhrer was expected back from Russia. We were told foxes had blundered into the minefield. Now that has happened before, but this explosion was very loud and to me - I have good hearing - it sounded to come from above the forest. As it turned out, the Fuhrer's plane was delayed.'
'Doesn't sound to amount to much,' Lindsay replied.
'There was a lot of activity beyond the perimeter. later that afternoon. I'm sure I heard tracked vehicles moving into the forest. Today the Fuhrer does arrive for his normal midday conference - and then curtails it. Something was wrong with the generator - the lights went dim and stayed that way. With the cloud overc
ast we could hardly see each other inside the Lagebaracke.'
'So, the power goes on the blink. There's a war on, in case you'd forgotten...'
'I'm not a complete fool, Wing Commander!'
'I'm an informal type. Call me Ian. May I call you Christa?'
'All right, Ian - but only when we're alone. Otherwise it must be Fraulein Lundt. Martin Bormann has tried to get me into bed a dozen times - he's succeeded with most of the other secretaries. You don't want to upset him - he's the most dangerous man at the Wolf's Lair. And he's in charge of all admin - including operation of the power supply.'
'He's the only one - who knows about the generator?'
'Well, no. Keitel and WI are both technically- minded and poke their noses into everything. Like most of us, they get so bored in this oasis of hell.' Her eyes held him. 'And we've got spy fever! The Fuhrer is convinced there's a Soviet agent inside the Wolf's Lair.' Her face went passive. 'Bormann has just arrived. He's coming to see you. I'm leaving...'
Lindsay lay on the bunk, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the heavily-reinforced roof and not seeing it. Bormann had shown him to his quarters, a small but in the cantonment inside Perimeter Two where Keitel and Jodl had their own private abodes - neither of which looked any more luxurious than the primitive place allocated to the Englishman.
He was amazed at the whole layout which reminded him vividly of descriptions he had read of prisoner-of-war camps. But he was recalling every word of his conversation with Christa Lundt. Could he trust one word she had said?
First there was the mysterious explosion which - according to Christa - had taken place overhead. Second, the business about the power dimming at the military conference was odd. Third there was something unreal about his brief meeting with Hitler. Then he remembered Christa's tale of a Soviet agent inside the Wolf's Lair. That really did destroy her whole credibility.
The heavily-muffled figure passed through the outermost checkpoint and vanished inside the mist-bound forest. It trod with almost feminine light-footedness, making hardly a sound on the crusted snow.