The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  Breakfast was one slice of dark bread which tasted like sawdust sprinkled with charcoal. There was a chipped mug containing some liquid he couldn't identify. Sitting at a small table he looked at Paco.

  She was wearing a faded head-scarf tied under her chin which hid her blonde hair. A heavy bolero-style jacket and a cheap skirt which billowed out completed the new ensemble. It made her look plumper.

  He finished the bread and swallowed the rest of the liquid. The battered old suitcase stood on the floor. He gestured towards it.

  'We take that?'

  'Yes, you carry it. We change clothes again when we arrive at the refuge in Graz. Any talking needed at the station you leave to me. I've already got our tickets. Ready?'

  'No! So let's go...'

  He picked up the working man's cloth cap and pulled it down over his forehead. The clothes felt strange - and not only from sleeping in them. The material was stiff and unyielding. He had picked up the case when he caught sight of himself in the cracked wardrobe mirror.

  'I haven't had a shave...'

  'I want you whiskered, you clot! You're a peasant. Some people can't think of the simplest things...'

  'Oh, stop your nagging, for Christ's sake!'

  'That's better,' she told him. 'I want you alert. We go out by the fire-escape - the receptionist says a policeman is watching the front entrance...'

  The fire-escape was a rusted contraption clinging precariously to the side of the rear of the building. It led down into the narrow alley Lindsay had seen from the bedroom window when they had arrived.

  'I don't like the look of this …'

  'Go on!' she hissed.

  One of the metal treads gave way under his weight, then stabilized at a slant. Bora and Milic were waiting for them in the alley. Lindsay noticed Bora also carried an ancient suitcase. Both men were clad in peasant garb. Paco pushed past them and Lindsay followed her out of the alley into the open.

  Smoke. In the pre-dawn atmosphere the whole district appeared to be shrouded in smoke. It was the relics of the overnight fog. They passed the silhouettes of slum tenements and then he had his first glimpse of the grim building which was the Sudbahnhof. More like a prison than a railway station.

  Stooped figures like ghosts drifted towards the building. He followed Paco inside the booking-hall where more figures huddled in the cold, formed queues behind the ticket windows. They went through the door on to the platform. A train stood waiting with destination plates attached to the coaches: Graz. At this moment he saw Gruber, the Gestapo chief from the Berghof.

  'Do as I tell you and don't bloody argue...'

  Lindsay grabbed Paco by the arm and held on tightly. She was compelled to stop and he knew she was furious. He didn't care. Gruber! Suddenly he was alert. The taste of his filthy breakfast was forgotten. He glanced both ways along the crowded platform.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?' she whispered.

  'Keep still a minute!'

  He kept hold of her arm, forcing her to do his bidding. Two youths who had been strolling towards him stopped in their tracks. They were the youths who had attacked him with an iron pipe. Lindsay, sensing Gruber's closeness to his left, stared hard at them.

  The one who had run away saw him first, said something to his companion, who then also stared back at Lindsay. They turned away. They began to run, knocking down an old woman in their haste. It became a commotion.

  'Halt!' Gruber's voice, a harsh shout. 'Halt, I say - or we fire!'

  Gruber rushed straight in front of Lindsay, a Luger in his right hand, followed by two more men also holding pistols. The three men stopped, aimed their weapons. Lindsay counted six shots. One of the youths flung up both hands like an athlete at the winning tape and crashed forward on to the platform. The second youth screamed, stopped, grabbed his left leg and sank down on one knee.

  'Come on! Now!'

  Lindsay hustled Paco aboard the train, glanced back, saw Milic and Bora close behind, and pushed Paco along the corridor. She found an empty compartment and sank into the corner seat next to the corridor. He closed the door as Bora and Milic moved on to another compartment.

  'That was Gruber of the Gestapo,' Lindsay said quietly, heaving the case on to the rack. 'He questioned me before we escaped from the Berghof …' No point in telling Paco about the existence and location of the Wolf's Lair. 'Those two thugs thought I was going to point the finger at them. They saw me, they saw Gruber - Gestapo written all over him. They panicked - as I hoped. The perfect diversion for us. Any comment?'

  He sat down and she leaned her head back and studied him. Her breasts were heaving as she struggled to get her breath back. She smiled.

  'You really have learned fast, haven't you, Lindsay?'

  It was all over Vienna in no time - the news that the Gestapo had shot one of the two murderers of a German soldier and had the other in custody. Gruber saw to it that the triumph was broadcast. This put the Gestapo one up against the SS and the Abwehr. What he did not foresee was that within twenty-four hours this would bring Hartmann to Gestapo headquarters where the surviving deserter was to be interrogated.

  Hartmann had no difficulty in persuading the officer on duty to give him access to the prisoner. He simply waved Bormann's document under his nose.

  At that moment Gruber was preoccupied in his office trying to get through to the Berghof.

  'I am Major Hartmann,' the Abwehr officer informed the deserter who was lying on a bed in a cell with his leg bandaged. 'You realize your position? You will be tried and sentenced on the evidence of the soldier who survived your brutal assault...'

  'It was Gerd who killed him...' the youth protested.

  'If I am to help you,' Hartmann interrupted, 'you must tell me what happened at the Sudbahnhof. I cannot understand why you panicked. No one had seen you...'

  'The man and the girl had spotted us...'

  The youth stopped as though he had said too much. Hartmann leaned forward as he raised a warning finger.

  'I am short of time. I am the Abwehr. Once I leave here you are alone - with the Gestapo. What man, what girl?'

  'The previous night we stopped them near the Sudbahnhof. The funny thing is they were dressed so differently I might never have recognized them at the station - but the man kept staring at me...'

  Hartmann had the whole story out of him in ten minutes. The youth had seen the man and the girl boarding the Graz train. Hartmann stood up, called the guard, left the cell and left Gestapo headquarters.

  Reluctantly he decided he had better report his findings to Bormann before he headed for Graz.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Bureau Ha, the section of Swiss Intelligence which dealt with Lucy, was based in the Villa Stutz, eight and a half kilometres from the suburb where the Roesslers had their apartment.

  This three-storey, stucco-faced building was tucked well out of the way in a discreet location on a lonely cape projecting into Lake Lucerne. From the outside it had the appearance of being the residence of a wealthy Swiss. No uniformed soldiers were ever seen in the vicinity; its wrought-iron double gates were guarded by men in civilian clothes.

  It was to the Villa Stutz that Roger Masson summoned Roessler to an interview in his office at midnight. The late hour was chosen deliberately. It enabled Roessler to make the trip to the Bureau's headquarters without being seen. At that time - as Masson knew - Switzerland was swarming with German agents who had slipped across the frontiers.

  Masson sat stiffly behind his desk as the stooped figure of Roessler was shown into the room. This alone made Roessler nervous - it was unlike Masson who normally greeted him in the most friendly manner. The Swiss launched his verbal onslaught as soon as Roessler was seated opposite him.

  'You are a German. Our arrangement was that you would operate your transmitter on the clear understanding that copies of every signal from Woodpecker would be sent to me...'

  'There have been no signals to send...'

  'You expec
t me to believe that for several weeks Woodpecker has been off the air every night? Has the system broken down then? Do you think Woodpecker has been caught by the Gestapo? All this is highly unsatisfactory. Has a man called Allen Dulles, an American, been near you?'

  'I have never heard of such a person,' Roessler protested.

  Masson leaned back in his chair. Roessler's statement carried conviction. But the American agent who had slipped into Switzerland via Vichy France earlier was proving a bloody nuisance. He travelled about openly, making no attempt to conceal himself. He practically advertised his existence. Already the Germans knew he was in Switzerland. As these thoughts drifted through his mind, Masson watched his visitor who stirred restlessly as he glanced round the room. Floor-length curtains shrouded the windows and the silence was increased by the mist rolling in from the lake.

  'It really puzzles me - this sudden gap in Woodpecker's flow of information,' Masson said suddenly.

  'You think it doesn't puzzle me? And the season for the summer campaign on the Russian front is approaching - so Moscow should be avid for details of the Wehrmacht's order of battle. Hitler could

  destroy them with the huge forces under his control...'

  'I know. Well, we'll have to see. You may go now...'

  Masson sat alone at his desk for a whole hour after Roessler had left. If Hitler won on the Eastern front his next objective might be the invasion of Switzerland. There had been that unnerving reference to Switzerland his code-breakers had still not managed to unravel. Lucy's activities - if ever discovered - were a tremendous provocation to the Nazis. Masson simply couldn't make up his mind whether to let Roessler go on.

  At the end of April 1943 Woodpecker's transmissions were resumed. Masson had no way of knowing that this event coincided with the movement of the Fuhrer and his entourage back to the Wolf's Lair aboard the Amerika. Among the people who travelled back with him on the train were Reichsleiter; Martin Bormann; the stiff-necked Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel; and the amiable but wily General Jodl.

  The Amerika was steaming steadily closer to the Wolf's Lair when Bormann entered the dining-car. Hitler sat at a table with Keitel and Jodl and had commenced his meagre lunch consisting of a bowl of celery soup.

  'Mein Fuhrer, Bormann announced as he sat in the empty chair, 'there is news of the English fugitive, Lindsay...'

  'They have captured him? Alive, I hope...'

  'Well, no - not yet. But Hartmann has reported they are making for Yugoslavia. He is following them..

  'Ah, Hartmann!' Hitler was amused at Bormann's expense. 'I recall at the Berghof you wished to entrust this mission solely to the Gestapo and the SS. Was it not I who insisted Hartmann should join the search?'

  'It was your decision alone, mein Fuhrer, once again confirming your infallible judgement,' Bormann agreed obsequiously.

  Jodl nearly choked on the particularly succulent morsel of pork he was enjoying. The Reichsleiter's self-abasement almost made him throw up. Jodl was one of the few men capable of standing up to Hitler. There had been a famous pre-war incident when he had engaged in a shouting match with the Fuhrer, contradicting him to his face.

  'I don't know how you can stomach that meat,' Hitler remarked. 'A vegetarian diet...' He stopped himself launching into a long lecture and continued questioning Bormann. 'So, Lindsay and his associates did not head for Switzerland - as you were certain they would. The expensive luggage abandoned at the Westbahnhof should have warned you, Bormann. They were adopting a different role. Where does Hartmann think they are heading for now?'

  'One of the British agents parachuted in to liaise with the Yugoslav guerrilla forces...'

  'Which one specifically?' Jodl enquired.

  'He gave no further information except that he was continuing on their trail,' Bormann replied.

  Keitel remained silent, apparently absorbed in his meal and the view out of the window. It was going to be one of the first warm spring days.

  'Yugoslavia?' Hitler repeated thoughtfully. 'I wonder if they all realize what awaits them down there? They are entering the gates of hell …'

  By 2.30 on the following morning, the Amerika had long ago pulled up in the small railway siding at the Wolf's Lair. Hitler and his entourage were settled in at their familiar quarters inside Security Ring A. There was one exception.

  A shadowy figure made its way alone through the darkness of the engulfing pine forest until it reached the log pile. Agile hands removed the few logs concealing the transceiver. The coded signal the hands tapped out was in two parts. The first gave the new German order of battle decided on by the Fuhrer at his midnight conference.

  The second part, in special code, reported Hartmann's news as to the present whereabouts of Wing Commander Lindsay and his likely destination. The transmission completed, the hands replaced the concealing logs and switched off the small, masked torch. Woodpecker had resumed communication with Lucy.

  As you drive into the Kremlin you enter a city within a city - like one of those Russian, hand-painted wooden dolls which opens to reveal inside a smaller replica of the original doll. You drive across a vast courtyard surrounded with medieval houses and ancient churches and the great entrance doors close behind you, sealing you off from the outside world. It is like travelling back through several centuries in time.

  At five o'clock on the morning of 1 May Laventri Beria was in a foul humour as he sat in the rear of the black limousine - the only colour known to Soviet manufacturers of luxury cars. Seeing nothing of the inner-city, he tried to guess what emergency could have caused Stalin to summon him at this ungodly hour. Beria was getting very short of sleep.

  The Generalissimo, fully-dressed in his simple uniform, freshly shaved, waited for the NKVD chief in his office in the modern block. He remained standing and made a gesture for Beria to sit down. This compensated for the Georgian's lack of height and put his visitor at a psychological disadvantage.

  'That Englishman, Wing Commander Lindsay!' Stalin's voice was harsh, his manner venomous. He paced around the gloomy room for a few moments and Beria froze. Seldom had he seen the Georgian so disturbed. 'He is escaping to Yugoslavia..

  He used the word escaping in a tone of withering sarcasm. 'Do you really think, Beria, it would be possible for a man to escape from Berchtesgaden without the Fuhrer's connivance?'

  'You have clearly detected some conspiracy?' Beria suggested cautiously and then waited. He was accustomed to Stalin using him as a sounding-board for his own thoughts — especially if he was under great stress. The atmosphere reeked with tension and that mixture of odours old Western hands associate with Russia — human sweat, repellent Soviet soap and disinfectant.

  'I have received another signal telling me not only that this Englishman is making for Yugoslavia but also — listen to this, comrade — that he will attempt to get in touch with spies dropped by parachute into that country by our so-called Allies. You see the next development, of course?'

  'Perhaps you would enlighten me?' Beria requested.

  'It is all a capitalist trick!' Stalin's face suddenly flushed red as the blood coloured his complexion. 'Lindsay is a peace emissary from Churchill! He has agreed terms with Hitler which he is carrying back to London. Hitler goes to great lengths to conceal this from me — by returning Lindsay by a devious route. He hides his real aims even from his closest associates. Can you imagine the atmosphere of intrigue and mistrust which must prevail at the Hitlerite headquarters - one man pitted against the other?'

  Beria could imagine it only too well, but was careful not to say so. It described perfectly the regime in the Kremlin.

  'Perhaps the problem is not insoluble?' he ventured.

  'I have already taken steps to deal permanently with our Wing Commander,' Stalin informed him.

  On 2 May in London it was raining, which- was no great surprise, a steady drizzle which could soak you in five minutes if you were outside. Tim Whelby was outside.

  He wore an ordinary, drab raincoat and pretend
ed to be reading a newspaper in the dreary surroundings of Charing Cross station. It was also chilly and he shivered as he checked his watch. 10 pm. Exactly. Another three minutes and he would go back to his flat.

  'An urgent signal has arrived from Cossack...'

  The words were spoken in a whisper. Savitsky had appeared out of nowhere. He stood a foot away from Whelby and shook water off his umbrella over the Englishman. He turned and apologized in a normal voice.

  'That's all right. I was wet through anyway,' Whelby replied in a sarcastic tone. He lowered his voice. 'Do get on with it, the police patrol round here...'

  'Our Wing Commander is heading for Yugoslavia. We understand he hopes to contact one of the Allied agents there...'

  'He's on his own?' Whelby could not keep the surprise out of his question. By now he had pieced together a fairly complete picture of Lindsay. He knew for certain the RAF type spoke fluent German but no one had mentioned Serbo-Croat. The whole thing seemed highly unlikely. 'Are you sure about this information?' he asked.

  'All my information is correct,' the Russian said with some irritation. 'And no, he is not alone. He linked up with a group of Allied agents. They got him out of Germany.'

  'What do you expect me to do about it?' Whelby demanded sharply. 'My area is the Iberian peninsula. He was coming out via Switzerland and on to Spain. I might have done something then.'

  'He must not reach Colonel Browne alive. Even if you have to intercept him personally. That comes

  from the top. I'm going...'

  'I would if I were you,' Whelby replied with a trace of bitterness. For God's sake, did they imagine he was a trained assassin?

  Marooned in southern Austria, Wing Commander Lindsay had no inkling of how many different enemy groups were closing in on him. On the German side there were Colonel Jaeger and his deputy, Schmidt; the Gestapo, led by Gruber and his more intelligent colleague, Willy Maisel; and Major Hartmann of the Abwehr.

  Stalin was being, kept constantly in touch with the Englishman's progress. He was further doing everything in his power to bring about the Wing Commander's early liquidation.