by Colin Forbes
Lindsay buried himself under the pile and she snuggled close to him. He was lying on his case but movement now would be dangerous. Reaching under his jacket, he pulled out the Luger. Her lips spoke direct into his right ear.
'Why the gun? You're not going to shoot him.. 'Only if he finds us. Then I grab the driving wheel and we take off.
'Let's hope not..'
She subsided. Let's hope not. Christ! Shooting the driver at this stage would be the last resort. Later, Lindsay would have no compunction, but parked outside the Berghof there were so many hazards.
Someone might hear the shot. The body would have to be concealed. How would they get through the checkpoints with Lindsay at the wheel? He felt Christa stiffen. The driver was returning for a fresh load. They heard him bang his boots against the outside to kick off snow. Submerged under the linen piles they heard him rummaging about and it seemed he was very close. Lindsay hoped to God that - if it came to it - he could eliminate the man with a blow from the barrel rather than firing the weapon.
Clump! He had dropped to the ground with further supplies. They heard the crunch of his heavy-footed tread on the snow. With luck any traces their own feet had left in the snow would be gone. But Lindsay's nerves were tingling. The delivery seemed to be taking forever. And every second they lingered at this point increased the danger of someone noticing he was missing.
Three more times the driver made trips inside the Berghof. Now each time he returned he brought back sacks of dirty linen which he tossed carelessly towards the back. On the third occasion Lindsay saw something which made him freeze.
The driver was approaching the truck. Through a gap between the sacks Lindsay saw exposed - in full view - the forefoot of Christa's left boot. A sack which had previously covered her foot had slithered away. To miss seeing that boot the driver would have to be blind. The crisis had arrived. He took a firm grip on the butt of the Luger.
'God in heaven! This bleedin' weather..'
The driver was talking to himself as he scrambled aboard. A man of method, he climbed aboard to ensure the dirty linen was stored at the very back of the truck. Standing upright he peered towards the back, holding the new sack of dirty linen while he recovered his breath.
'Finished, Hans? This weather suit your driving? You bastard, you should be restricted to the autobahn..'
Belatedly, an SS guard had appeared and was joshing the driver who stood still holding the sack. He glanced back over his shoulder and shouted at the guard.
'Gunther, you can piss down your trouser leg. I'll be back in Salzburg before noon. Care to join me in the cab?'
'In this weather! You're a bloody lunatic! The checkpoints should slow you down - if you haven't turned the truck over...'
Lindsay held his breath. Christa's boot was still sticking out. He dared not mention it to her. And when the driver spotted it he'd call to the guard...
The sack of dirty linen sailed through the air and landed on her foot, completely concealing it. Clump! the driver had jumped to the ground. There was a grinding rattle. Darkness. He had shut the door.
Crouched over his wheel inside the cab Hans switched on - the fog-lamps, the motor. Gear in, brake released. He was away. He rammed his foot on the accelerator. The truck took off down the winding slope.
Under the sack pile Christa grabbed hold of Lindsay and held on as the vehicle began to sway from side to side. The vehicle picked up more speed. The sacks cushioned them from the buffeting but under them they could feel the wheels sliding. Lindsay guessed they were approaching the hairpin bend. He waited for Hans to reduce speed.
Hans accelerated. He had wiped a peep-hole in the windscreen but it was still partially misted over. The eery yellow beams of the fog-lamps showed the hairpin coming up. He kept his foot well down.
Lindsay held Christa tightly. He felt the rear wheels swinging out of control. Hans let the truck go with the skid. No braking. He held the wheel steady, went with the skid until the vehicle was moving slowly, then gently applied the accelerator. He had navigated the hairpin. He pressed his foot down and headed for the first checkpoint.
In the back of the truck Christa clung to Lindsay. There was sweat on the Englishman's forehead. She let out her breath in a deep sigh.
'He's going to kill us,' she said.
'Rear wheel skid,' said Lindsay in a clipped tone. 'He coped with it perfectly. I'll tell you now where we're heading for - Munich.'
'That's the second express then - the one that departs at 12.30 from Salzburg. If we make it we reach Munich at 1.30 - which is when they'll be bringing your lunch to your room at the Berghof. The alarm will be raised almost at the precise moment we get to Munich. Bormann will react fast - he'll put out an alert for us all over Bavaria.'
'Let's get to Salzburg first,' Lindsay suggested. 'And we'll have about a twenty-four-hour wait in Munich before I can meet our contact. Where the hell we'll hole up I don't know...'
'I do! Kurt had a small attic hideaway which should still be available..'
'Whereabouts in Munich?' he asked casually. 'Near the Fedhermhalle or the Frauenkirche?'
'Very close to the Frauenkirche. It's in a small alley. It's not much of a place but his aunt hates the Nazis They put her husband in a labour battalion. It's one reason why Kurt chose the place...' She broke off. 'We're stopping. Christ! This is the first checkpoint.'
Inside his cab Hans swore when he saw the barrier like a frontier pole was barring his way at the checkpoint. Bloody fools! Had they nothing better to do in this weather. And there seemed to be more guards about than usual.
He braked but kept the motor running as a strong hint. With a sense of relief he recognized the SS officer approaching as he lowered his window. Hans never alighted from his cab - not for any time-serving bloody soldier!
`You are trying to break a record, Hans?' the thin-faced SS man enquired. 'We saw you coming down the mountain - you're going to end up breaking your neck.'
'I'm late for my meal. What's all the fuss? Why the circus?'
'We are searching all vehicles. An exercise. Orders from the Berghof last night..'
'Well get on with it - and then lift that ruddy pole!'
'Always so polite, Hans!'
Every word of the conversation could be clearly heard inside the truck. Lindsay gripped the butt of the Luger again. They had to be discovered if the truck was searched. Could he cold-bloodedly press the muzzle of the Luger against Christa's temple and pull the trigger? He had never killed a woman before...'
A grinding rattle as someone raised the rear door. The temperature dropped even lower as air flooded inside. Christa grasped his gun-hand carefully, lifted it slowly and placed the tip of the muzzle against the side of her head. He didn't take the first pressure on the trigger. Would they use bayonets to prod the sack pile?
A scraping noise - followed by an intake of breath. Someone had clambered up inside the truck. Lindsay felt moisture on the palm of the hand holding the pistol. Christa lay quite inert. What the hell must her thoughts be at this moment? Lindsay had never felt so helpless, a sensation he detested.
A clump of jackboots moving closer. Outside the sound of several voices. He could feel the tension inside Christa's body. The poor kid was petrified with terror. Sounds followed each other in rapid succession. The groaning rumbling of a half-track vehicle nearby. The now familiar rattle of the doom at the back being closed. 'Piss off, Hans, and get your lunch...' Gear change. Brake release. The truck was moving...
'Hans!' A bellowing shout. 'Drive straight through the next two checkpoints.' They were on their way.
Chapter Twenty
At the Berghof the Fuhrer rose at his normal late hour - 11 am - within minutes of Lindsay's and Christa's escape to Salzburg. Following his normal routine, he had gone to bed at 3 am.
His bedroom, which had a connecting link via a dressing room with Eva Braun's, was furnished in a Spartan fashion. The only decoration on the walls was an oil painting of his mother copied from a
n old photograph.
One of the most powerful men in the world, he shaved and dressed himself without any help from his valet, Krause. His garb was as ordinary as his late breakfast. He wore his brown tunic with the red swastika armband and trousers.
His breakfast - never varied - consisted of two cups of milk and up to ten pieces of zwieback, the German black rusk. He also consumed several pieces of semi-sweet chocolate which, he was convinced, gave him energy.
He ate alone and standing up, leafing through the latest reports of DNB, the German News Agency. Breakfast was finished in five minutes and then he was ready for the day. He opened the midday military conference attended by Bormann, Keitel, Jodl and other high officers with an unusual remark.
'I have the odd feeling that something disturbing has happened.'
'What might that be, mein Fuhrer?' purred Bormann.
'If I knew, I would have told you! Now let's get on..'
He adopted a characteristic pose while he listened to Jodl outlining the present position on the Eastern front, standing with both hands clasped over his lower abdomen. He said nothing, nodding his head occasionally as though in agreement. His silence had the effect of creating an atmosphere of tension.
At one moment he left the conference table over which was spread a large-scale map of Soviet Russia. He stood peering out of a window and then returned to the table. He had been gazing towards Salzburg.
Bormann went berserk when he heard the news. The military conference ended abruptly when Hitler glowered at his generals and left without a word. It was 1.30 pm. Since it was Sunday, the cook had prepared Lindsay's meal a few minutes early because he was anxious to finish and get away for a few hours. The tray was delivered to the Englishman's empty room at 1.25.
'God in Heaven, Jaeger!' Bormann fumed. 'What kind of security are you running. You plan a trap for Lindsay earlier, it flops - later in the morning he escapes...'
'I was handicapped...' the Colonel stood his ground.. by the fact that my detachment of guards was dispersed over a wide area to spring the trap. A trap you originally suggested..'
Bormann, the top of his head level with Jaeger's chest, paused in his tirade. He recognized a quagmire when his foot felt the surface subsiding. If the Fairer launched an investigation, this SS hyena would share the blame for the disaster - with himself.
'How could he have got away?' he demanded. 'May I say something?' requested Schmidt, who was standing two paces behind his chief.
Bormann stared at the thin-faced officer who wore rimless glasses. He disliked rimless glasses: they always reminded him of his bitter enemy, Himmler. But Schmidt had an analytical mind. They made a dangerous combination, this pair. Schmidt provided the intellect; Jaeger was the man of action. He nodded: permission to speak.
'There may, I regret, be further bad news,' Schmidt informed him. 'Fraulein Christa Lundt is known to have frequented the company of the Englishman. She, also, appears to be missing..'
'Two of them gone!'
'I believe, Schmidt continued, 'there is only one method of escape they could have used. The laundry truck which calls daily at eleven in the morning. The timing is right..'
'The checkpoints!' Bormann raved.
'The alert was cancelled after our plan for the Mercedes trap clearly had not worked,' Jaeger intervened.
Bormann noted the word our and suddenly calmed down. Schmidt took the opportunity to make a suggestion. Jaeger would be most grateful if he could divert Bormann's fury.
'The driver of the laundry truck may have information. Shall I call him on the phone?'
It took Schmidt only a few minutes to track down the driver at his home. He passed the phone over to the Reichsleiter who was careful not to panic Hans.
'What was that? An SS officer's uniform missing..... your depot is close to the railway... a couple was seen walking towards the station... an SS officer and a girl... the Munich express... hold on...' He looked at Schmidt. 'A railway timetable. Quickly. A train to Munich about 12.30...' He spoke a few more words to the driver before ending the call.
The meticulous Schmidt had already located a timetable and was leafing through the pages. He found the right place as Bormann gave the instructions to Jaeger.
'Get me the chief of Munich SS on the line. I will talk to him. An SS officer's uniform sent for cleaning in that truck has gone missing. Well, Schmidt?'
'If they were able to board the express - and the Lundt girl would probably manage that for them both - they departed Salzburg at 12.30 and arrive Munich at 1.30...'
Bormann glanced at a wall-clock. 1.39. 'Let's hope to God it arrives late - they usually do these days.'.
Jaeger was holding the receiver, one hand clamped over it while he spoke. 'I have the Munich SS chief on the line. His name is Mayr...'
'Bormann speaking. Mayr? Two fugitives from the Berghof... an Englishman and a German girl... descriptions... suspected they are aboard the 12.30 express from Salzburg arriving at Munich about this moment. The man may be wearing SS uniform... seal off the station …'
'The train is going to arrive late,' Christa commented. 'It was that hold-up at Rosenheim...'
Lindsay borrowed her hand-mirror to check his appearance. He was wearing the SS officer's uniform Christa had seen projecting from one of the linen sacks in the laundry truck. There was a blemish on the left sleeve. Otherwise it was in impeccable condition. It fitted him better than he had feared. A bit tight round the collar. He adjusted the peaked cap so it hid the top part of his face and glanced round the mail-van they had travelled inside from Salzburg. He checked his watch. 1.40 pm. Ten minutes late.
Moving slowly, the train began to rumble over points. He looked at Christa who stood close to the door with her suitcase. They'd agreed they must leave the coach as soon as it stopped. Earlier he had used his knife to try and manipulate the outside bolt open. On the verge of giving up, he felt the bolt elevate and clang as it dropped free.
'We're coming in now, Christa said calmly. 'There's a system of points where the tracks converge..'
'Get to the far end of the coach,' Lindsay ordered. 'I know this station - it's huge,' she protested. 'Do as you're bloody well told.'
She glowered and then obeyed his instruction. Lindsay took up a position to one side of the sliding door, the knife held in his right hand, the suitcase in his left. Slipping inside the mail van at Salzburg had been easy. Munich could be more dangerous.
Major Hugo Bruckner of the SS stood on the platform as the Salzburg express came in. A burly man of medium height, he took his duties very seriously. He had a particular detestation for army deserters - probably because he had served a long stint on the Russian front. They travelled about on trains. A favourite hiding-place was the mail-van which he could see approaching.
The passenger coaches slid past him, doors already opening as troops and civilians prepared to alight and join the jostling mob in the concourse. He stiffened as his keen eyes spotted the loose bolt on the mail-van. It looked as though he might gather up more cannon fodder for the Eastern front — the inevitable destination of deserters caught in the act.
The train stopped. Bruckner stood on an isolated portion of the platform and noted the door was ajar a couple of centimetres, enough for anyone hidden inside to peer out. The darkness inside the mail-van was making it difficult for Bruckner to see into the coach but he had no fear of slimy deserters. He threw the door to one side and climbed aboard.
The coach was empty. He looked to his right and Lindsay was now within three feet of him. It was the SS uniform which momentarily froze Bruckner's reflexes — the last person he had expected to encounter was an SS officer..
Lindsay's right hand flashed up and drove down with all his strength behind the vicious lunge. The blade slid off the edge of the German's breastbone and plunged up to the hilt. Lindsay let go of the handle and Bruckner staggered back inside the coach with a grunt of surprise.
Christa, one hand to her mouth, watched Bruckner toppling back w
ith the knife protruding from his chest like a decoration. A red lake had appeared and was welling over his uniform. Lindsay put an arm round his neck, well clear of the blood, hauled him deep inside the van and dropped him in the place where they had hidden.
He piled mail-bags on top of the dead German with furious haste. Christa had peered out and had dropped to the platform. He grabbed his case and followed her. Catching up with the girl, he saw her face was white.
'I think I'm going to be sick...'
'Reactions come later. Get a hold on yourself! You said you knew this station. So do your stuff - get us out of it.
His violent verbal assault did the trick. She glared at him and recovered, then quickened her pace. 'Look at those post trolleys coming towards us - they're heading for the mail-van...'
Killing the German had been a reflex action, something he knew he would have to do sooner or later. The crocodile of mail trolleys, proceeding down the platform towards them, was something unforeseen. they'd never get clear of the station before the body was found...'
Christa was moving at almost a running pace, taking long strides, and now they were approaching the end of the platform. No inspectors at the barrier - in Germany tickets were checked on the train while in motion. He glanced back. The trolley cavalcade, pulled by one man, pushed by another, had almost reached the mail-van. They walked through the barrier.
They were caught up in the milling mob, submerged by it as people criss-crossed the concourse. Christa linked her arm inside his and guided him towards an exit. At the sight of the SS uniform other passengers made way for them. It speeded their passage but drew attention to them.
'How far is it to this flat your fiancé had?'
'Not far. Five minutes by tram..