by Colin Forbes
In the distance there was a sound like a rifle shot: The unreal silhouette didn't even pause. An ice-cased branch had snapped from a tree. It was a frequent occurrence. The figure moved on confidently along the path through the minefields. Half a kilometre from the checkpoint it stopped inside a clump of trees and bent down.
The radio transmitter was concealed in what looked like a hide for an animal, a pile of logs - of which there were many - half-covered with snow- covered undergrowth. Extracting a notebook from a pocket, the figure turned to the page with the already encoded message.
Sensitive fingers began tapping out the signal, fingers which first extended the telescopic aerial of the high-powered device. Nothing was hurried. Once the message had been sent, logs were replaced in position. A hand reached up and shook a branch above the 'hide', bringing down a fresh fall of snow to conceal all signs of disturbance.
The muffled figure then began its slow return to the checkpoint, taking its time. A number of personnel inside the Wolf's Lair were in the habit of taking walks beyond the perimeter - anything to escape for a short time the claustrophobic atmosphere which pervaded the headquarters.
Half an hour later Ian Lindsay put on a. military greatcoat Guensche had loaned him and left his but to stretch his legs. The mist - it was almost dark - had invaded the Wolf's Lair and dirty grey swirls drifted past his face. Without warning a muffled figure loomed in front of him.
Field Marshal Keitel raised his baton in a weary gesture and walked on across the compound to his quarters. He had not exchanged a word. It was the kind of evening when no one liked the world.
Part Two
The Lucy Ring: Roessler
Chapter Ten
Lucerne, Switzerland. It was a crisp, cold night in the ancient Swiss town. Few people walked the snowbound cobbled streets in the dark silence. Closeted in his apartment on the top floor of an old building, Rudolf Roessler took off his headphones and gazed at the pad recording the coded signal he had just received from Germany. He sat half inside a cupboard in front of a lowered panel which concealed his powerful transceiver.
Middle-aged, a man you could pass on the street a hundred times without realizing you had passed anyone, he peered through thick-lensed spectacles at the signal he would shortly re-transmit to Moscow. Even in its present form — Swiss cryptographers had long ago broken the code — he knew he was looking at the current order of battle of the German Army on the Eastern front.
The mystery — the solution to which Roessler could never even have guessed — was the identity of Woodpecker, the agent so close to the summit of the Nazi hierarchy he could supply regularly the German order of battle. Roessler never ceased to wonder about this incredible source.
Roessler himself had mysterious aspects. For one thing he was a German. Prior to 1933 he had been a theatrical publisher in Berlin and the editor of an anti- Nazi paper. During those abandoned days when the German capital was the fleshpot of Europe he had built up the contacts which - years later - led to the founding of the most successful spy network of World War Two. The Lucy Ring.
'Anna, I could do with a cup of hot coffee before I re-transmit to Moscow...'
He turned in his swivel chair and his wife smiled and nodded as she reached for the container of coffee. An attractive, dark-haired woman of forty, she was slim and brisk and enormously efficient. She talked as she bent over the stove.
'You work too hard, you know. All this work we do must put a tremendous strain on you...'
'Anna, we may well be making history. We could even change the whole course of the war - if only they will, please God, in Moscow, listen to us!'
'Either they will or they won't,' Anna replied. 'You can only do your best. Come and sit down at the table while you drink your coffee,' she scolded. 'Life is complicated enough as it is...'
It was indeed complicated. In 1933 Roessler fled to Switzerland, one jump ahead of arrest when Hitler came to power. As war came close he struck a bargain with Nachrichten-Dienst, the Swiss Military Information Service. In return for being allowed to operate his transceiver he would supply the Swiss with the signals obtained from his old contacts in Berlin.
One of these men had approached Roessler just before he left Germany. Roessler never knew the identity of this particular contact, although he had felt sure he was talking to a Communist.
'There will be a war,' the man had said. 'When it comes you'll receive radio signals from Woodpecker. He is so high up you would never believe it. A powerful transceiver will be smuggled across the Swiss border to you. I shall see you are given all the codes and technical data re radio transmission. And the name of a Swiss who will train you in the operation of the set..'
In 1943, the mild-mannered Roessler, who a decade earlier looked forward to a life spent as a theatrical publisher, found himself the controller of the world's most important spy network. The original contact in Berlin had given him one more instruction.
'You need a code-name to protect your real identity. We have decided to call you Lucy …'
In his office inside the Kremlin, Stalin was holding a decoded message in his hand as he stood by his desk. Two other men stood in front of him, respectfully silent.
One was Lavrenti Beria, a pallid-faced man wearing pince-nez, the head of the NKVD, the Ministry of State Security, later to become the KGB. The other visitor was General Zhukov, wide-shouldered and with a large, muscular body. Stalin handed the signal first to Beria, retired behind his desk, leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe which had a bent stem. From beneath bushy brows his yellowish eyes watched Beria as he spoke in his Georgian accent.
'That is another message which just came in from Lucy.'
'Who is this Lucy?' Zhukov asked with a hint of impatience.
'That is not your concern. The signal originates from Woodpecker, an important contact inside Hitlerite Germany. May I. assume, General...' he paused as though the rank might be of a temporary nature,
Zhukov that you send out regular patrols on the battlefront?'
Zhukov stiffened. The question was a near insult. He forced himself to conceal his indignation - to reply as though it were the most natural of questions.
'Generalissimo, I make it a point personally to ensure there are both daily and nightly patrols. They are told they need not return unless they bring in prisoners for interrogation...'
'Then tell me,' Stalin requested in his soft-spoken voice, 'do you believe that signal giving the German order of battle is to be trusted?'
They waited. The purse-lipped Beria, who had learned never to speak unless asked a direct question by Stalin, had handed the signal to Zhukov. There was something sinister in the sheer immobility of the
NKVD chief. Zhukov spoke, gazing at Stalin.
'From the latest information I have, this. signal - as regards the forward areas - is correct...'
'But the Germans could have planted a thin screen of units in those forward areas to correspond with the signal,' said Stalin.
Zhukov sighed. He hated these insidious military conferences, any summons to the Kremlin. But he was careful to suppress the sigh. It was all so typical of Stalin - trust no one! Was there the same atmosphere of intrigue at Hitler's headquarters - wherever that might be - he wondered? He refused to knuckle under completely.
'That is so,' he agreed. 'But Woodpecker's previous signals have proved astonishingly accurate - as though they were sent by someone in the Fuhrer's immediate entourage. As a soldier, you get a sixth sense about these things...'
'We will wait a little longer - see a few more of these signals before we base any operation on them.'
Stalin lowered his eyes and knocked out his pipe in a large ashtray on his desk. The embers in the crystal bowl glowed redly in the dimly-lit room. Power was still rationed in Moscow. And General Zhukov realized he had been dismissed.
As soon as he was alone with his secret police chief Stalin produced a second signal and handed it to him. He did not look at Beria when he commen
ted.,
'That message came in from London. An English air force officer, Lindsay, has flown from North Africa to see Hitler. Churchill is up to his old tricks again, I suspect.'
'Do you mean negotiating a separate peace with the Germans?' Beria suggested cautiously after scanning the signal.
'I didn't say that, did I? We will await developments.'
It was a favourite phrase of Stalin's, expressing an attitude he always adopted until he saw which way the cat jumped. He had used the same words when in. June 1941 warnings had poured into the Kremlin from all quarters forecasting an imminent German attack.
'And if it should prove to be the case?' Beria ventured.
'Then we may have to take drastic steps, may we not?'
Two hours earlier in Lucerne, Rudolf Roessler had completed his transmission of the signal to Moscow, closed the flap concealing the transceiver, and shut the door to the cupboard inside which he stored his only reason for existence.
Even when the long-distance aerial had first been installed he had practised caution. A Swiss civilian technician had strung the wire all round the room along the top of the picture ledge. Roessler had his casual explanation ready.
'I want to listen to the British BBC overseas transmissions clearly,' he had remarked.
His wife, Anna, stood waiting for him in the doorway. She had heard the familiar slap when he had shut the cupboard door.
'I'll stay up for Masson's courier,' she suggested. 'You get to bed and try to sleep. I've made a copy of the signal. It's in this envelope. I phoned the Villa Stutz while you transmitted.'
'What should I do without you?' Roessler wondered. 'Starve!'
'It's all so crazy, this war,' Roessler continued. 'I am German. I receive signals from the anti-Nazi underground. I transmit them to Moscow. I make sure Swiss Intelligence has a copy of these signals - in accordance with our agreement for permission to operate in their country. It is crazy, is it not?'
'If you say so...'
'I receive the signals from someone right at the top, someone I feel sure I never knew - but who must be taking a terrible risk. I then transmit them from this unknown Woodpecker to the equally unknown Cossack. Is anybody out there listening? The Russians are not winning.
'We'll know when Moscow is listening,' Anna told him.
'How, I ask you...?'
'When - if - the Red Army begins to sweep across Europe. Now, for the last time, Rudolf Roessler - go to bed!'
Chapter Eleven
Heinz Kuby, the Fuhrer's double, had summoned Martin Bormann to his quarters after resting. He received his visitor dressed in Hitler's wartime uniform, dark trousers and a military-style jacket. As Bormann entered and closed the door Kuby was pacing up and down, hands clasped behind his back.
Bormann studied his creation carefully and was astounded. He felt he was in the presence of the real Fuhrer. The one-time actor's opening remark was typical of Hitler, too typical for the liking of Bormann who had been waiting for the opportunity to 'instruct' Kuby.
'The first conference went well, Bormann. You understood, of course, my tactics? I said very little and made the others report the present military situation on the Eastern front. Now, at the next meeting, I shall begin to issue orders...'
'That would be terribly dangerous.. Bormann protested. He glanced nervously round the simply- furnished room. 'I trust we are alone...'
'Of course! You imagine I did not take precautions before I summoned you here?'
Summoned. Bormann stiffened at the phraseology. He had assumed Kuby would lean heavily on him for advice in every field. Instead the man who was now Adolf Hitler was already addressing him with an air of supreme authority. Hitler continued speaking.
'The main point is I have to grasp in detail the existing military dispositions — then I can exercise supreme control...'
'Supreme control?' Bormann was stupefied. 'You have not the knowledge to direct operations involving millions of men...'
'Interrupt me once more and you will leave the room,' Hitler threatened. 'While at the Berghof I have spent all my life preparing for just this moment.' He began to wave his hands, his gestures savage to punctuate his words. 'I have studied Clausewitz, von Moltke — all the military literature I found in the library, all the books my predecessor read I have soaked up so I could repeat them backwards. You forget, Bormann, I have a most excellent memory for facts..'
'And if I do not support you?'
'Mein Fuhrer!' the apparition hissed. 'That is how you address me in private as well as in public. You think you can denounce me? You who were responsible for bringing me to the Wolf's Lair? How long do you think you would last? Answer me that!'
'Is not someone bound to see through the impersonation?' Bormann suggested. 'Keitel? Jodl? We have successfully surmounted the first hurdle because I tampered with the generator - so it was impossible for anyone to see you clearly in the conference room. Then there are the men who visit us - Goebbels, Goering..'
'You are a fool, Bormann!'
Hitler sat down in an armchair, his hands clutching the arms, his forelock draped over his forehead as he stared at the other man. 'The generals who oppose my policy are just waiting for an opportunity to replace me - and those who have supported me, including Keitel and Jodl. Their positions - maybe their lives - depend on my continued existence. Your own certainly does. And so do the lives of all who, as you put it, visit us here. So - if anyone suspects he will be careful to keep his mouth shut!'
'I am sure you are right. Mein Fuhrer,' Bormann added.
'You are a fool,' Hitler continued thoughtfully, his bulging eyes gripping Bormann's attention. 'The whole of our success has been based on propaganda - which in itself is based on my original concept of The Big Lie! I have said - and proved - it time and again. A small lie people may question. An enormous lie so staggers them, they begin to believe it must be true. You see how it works in reverse?'
'Perhaps you would explain that to me?'
Bormann was still standing. But the Fuhrer had not suggested that he sit down. His mind was a whirl, fogged in a kind of hypnotic daze as the Fuhrer pressed on.
'The Big Lie. Who would ever dream that a man who looks just like the Fuhrer, who acts just like the Fuhrer, who speaks just like the Fuhrer can be anyone but the Fuhrer?'
Hitler jumped up suddenly in a characteristic burst of energy and again began pacing the room. His harsh tone mellowed and he became the soul of amiability.
'Bormann, I need your help. I want you always by my side. I can count on you, can I not?'
'Of course, mein Fuhrer! Always!'
The small, stocky Bormann found himself stiffening to attention. He gave the Nazi salute. Hitler stopped pacing and grasped him fondly by the arm. He smiled again and there was a film of moistness in his prominent eyes.
'May I mention the problem of the dog?' Bormann suggested.
'There is no problem - I made friends with Blondi during his visits to the Berghof. He trusts me - I have a rapport with dogs.'
'The only other problem,' Bormann began hesitantly, 'would appear to be insoluble - if you ever visit the Berghof again. I refer to Eva Braun..'
'The lady is one problem you do not have to worry your head about,' Hitler assured him, a humorous glint in his eyes. 'And I shall certainly visit the Berghof. Considering my life was confined there for so many years that is where I feel most at home.. ' He paused. 'I am glad you brought that up, Bormann. Until people get used to me, a change of scene should throw them off balance. So, in the near future we will all go to the Berghof - I need a rest from my arduous months of labour at the Wolf's Lair. I think that is all for now..'
Bormann returned to his own quarters, trudging slowly through the snow, in a state of turmoil. The past few days had been the busiest of his life. He had taken decision after decision, his mind too full of the present to look into the future.
Vaguely he had assumed that Heinz Kuby would be putty in his hands, to be moulded in any shape h
e wished. Now the 'robot' he had created was taking on a life and will of its own - and there was nothing he could do about it.
From the outbreak of World War Two, Adolf Hitler had demonstrated he was a military genius - fit to rank with Caesar, Frederick the Great and Wellington. In half-a-dozen crises he had proved his enormously superior flair.
April 1940. It was Hitler who had enthusiastically approved and backed the audacious invasion of Denmark and Norway. While his generals wrung their hands and predicted disaster, Hitler had ordered that the plans devised by Admiral Raeder should proceed.
Norway! A thousand miles of open sea and coastline.from its southern tip of North Cape — with the British Navy based at nearby Scapa Flow. Madness! Hitler had contemptuously waved aside all objections. Go ahead! Invade, General Falkenhorst! The plan had succeeded.
France! It was Hitler who put all his authority behind one general's crazy operation — Guderian's fantastic panzer drive through the 'impassable' roads of, the Ardennes, bursting out into the open country beyond, thundering across the Meuse bridges at Sedan. On and on towards the Channel while, again, his general staff shivered in their shoes and repeated their forecasts of disaster!
That was until the British were driven back across the water inside their inland fortress — and France fell within weeks. It was such brilliant successes which had cowed the High Command, which had led to Hitler being able to appoint his own tame men, Keitel and Jodl, to the peak of the command structure.
All this passed through Bormann's mind as, bleak- faced, he walked alone on that fateful afternoon under lowering skies in March 1943. What did the future hold? This was what obsessed him.
The plans of the Allied military dispositions in North Africa lay spread out on Colonel-General Jodl's desk. They had been delivered to him two hours earlier at his request by Ian Lindsay. Now the Englishman sat waiting and wondering as he struggled to conceal the tension inside him.