The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  And now, so far as Savitsky was concerned, the ball had, thank God, been passed to Tim Whelby. Washington, London, the Wolf's Lair, Vienna and Moscow, life was not so very different. If you were handed a grenade with the pin out, you passed the deadly gift into other hands as swiftly as possible.

  As the train from Spielfeld-Strass pulled into Maribor station Hartmann returned to his compartment to find Willy Maisel hauling down his case from the rack. The Gestapo man fastened the top button of his coat to muffle himself against the night cold.

  'Not leaving, I trust?' Hartmann enquired with just the right tone of apparent interest.

  'I have to keep Gruber in touch with developments which, as far as I can see, amount to zero. I can phone him from military headquarters here. By now he'll be like a cat on hot bricks to report again to Bormann.

  'I think I'll stay on board this train to Zagreb,' Hartmann remarked casually as he settled into his seat and lit his pipe.

  'Please yourself. I think it's a waste of time.'

  Hartmann waited until Maisel had gone and then went back into the corridor and lowered the window again. He peered out along the platform and was just in time to see Paco and Lindsay board a coach near the engine.

  The train had left Maribor some time earlier and was proceeding south through the night when Willy Maisel reached army headquarters, flourished his identity folder and tried to call Gruber in Vienna.

  He was informed by the operator that for security reasons all calls had to pass through the headquarters in Graz. He gave his name and waited, suddenly aware that he was ravenous. An aroma of food cooking drifted up into the room where he sat. He was quite unprepared for what happened next.

  'Is that Willy Maisel speaking?' a gruff voice demanded.

  'Yes, I have already asked to be put through.. 'Colonel Jaeger speaking, Maisel. What are you doing in Maribor?'

  'I left the train which came through from Spielfeld-Strass. I was with Major Hartmann of the Abwehr 'Put him on the line, please.'

  'I said I was with him. That was about an hour ago. He stayed on the train.'

  'Did he give any reason for that decision? Where is he headed for now? Is there any sign of the Englishman, Lindsay?'

  The questions were fired at him as though Jaeger were issuing commands to troops prior to an attack. Maisel cursed the infernal luck which had put him in touch with the SS colonel. He had no information, so what harm was there in relaying this negative factor?

  'Hartmann decided to go on to Zagreb. I have no idea why - it seemed a pointless decision. There is no sign of Lindsay...'

  'Hold the line!'

  Jaeger covered the mouthpiece and turned to Schmidt who stood next to him. He explained briefly the gist of the conversation. 'See what you can get out of him,' he suggested.

  'Schmidt here, Maisel. Can I ask you to be very precise about the sequence of events, please? Now, what exactly did Hartmann do?'

  'Nothing!' Maisel was mystified and not a little irritated. 'As the train was coming into Maribor he went into the corridor and looked out of the window. He said something about needing a breath of fresh air...'

  'Which side of the train was he looking out of? The platform side?'

  'Yes, that's right...'

  Maisel was beginning to wonder whether he had missed something but could not fathom what the devil it might be. Why the hell didn't they get off the line and let him speak to Vienna?

  'Now, please think carefully,' Schmidt continued. 'Before he went into the corridor and peered out of the window had he given any indication he was staying on the train?'

  'None at all. Only after he came back. I was surprised...'

  'Thank you, Maisel. I'm handing you back to the operator who will transfer you to Vienna now you are identified. All calls are monitored since the massacre at Spielfeld-Strass...'

  'How many were killed..?'

  'Here is the operator - goodbye, Maisel...'

  Schmidt put down the receiver and looked at the Colonel. He had just taken a nip of cognac from his hip flask and offered it to his deputy who shook his head. Jaeger replaced the screw cap before he spoke.

  'You put him off the track, I hope? Get anything out of him?'

  'He'll be smarting over the curt way I ended the conversation - which will stop him wondering what I was getting at. He sounded exhausted, I'm glad to say.'

  'That's the way I like the opposition,' Jaeger commented with some satisfaction. 'Exhausted! Now...'

  'It is interesting. Hartmann looked out of the corridor window as the train was approaching the platform at Maribor. Only after that did he announce he was continuing on to Zagreb. I think he spotted someone on that platform, someone waiting to board the train...'

  'And I think you could be right. That clever bastard always was a loner. The train takes a good six hours to reach Zagreb from Maribor. Why don't we steal a march on our secretive friend, Gustav Hartmann?'

  'Fly direct to Zagreb from here and be waiting for him at Zagreb station when the train arrives?' Schmidt suggested.

  'You're a mind-reader, my dear fellow,' Jaeger said jovially. 'So, what's keeping you? Arrange the flight and we'll leave for Zagreb at once.'

  Chapter Thirty

  Heljec, commander of the Partisan group operating north of Zagreb, chose a deep gorge near a place called Zidani Most to ambush the train. Six foot two tall, Heljec had thick black hair, dark and wary eyes, prominent Slavic cheekbones and a strong nose and jaw.

  Thirty years old, Heljec had been an engineer building dams in peacetime. Now his life was dedicated to destruction. He stood at the brink of the gorge looking down with his deputy, Vlatko Jovanovic, by his side. In his right hand Heljec held a German Schmeisser machine-pistol.

  'What time is it, Vlatko?' he asked.

  'Almost 3 am. The train should arrive shortly. The men are in position. They know what they must do..

  'They must knock out the guards in the engine- cab. They must eliminate the machine-gunner on top of the coal-tender. They must wipe out the troops secreted in the mail-van coach at the rear. No prisoners. We cannot afford them.'

  'It is all arranged,' Vlatko reassured him. 'Don't worry …'

  'The day I stop worrying, this unit ceases to exist...'

  Heljec spoke in a throaty voice - he consumed eighty cigarettes a day. There could hardly have been a greater contrast between the appearances and temperaments of the two men. Heljec had taken to the war like a duck to water. His men were in awe of his presence and stamina. He could make his way across country impassable to German commanders at a pace of thirty miles a day.

  Vlatko Jovanovic, a shoemaker by profession, was small and tubby. Fifty years old, he was appalled by war and destruction, a genial and pacific man who had decided there was no alternative but to fight. A calm and careful man - for twenty-five years he had been the finest shoemaker in Belgrade - he complemented Heljec's savage vigour perfectly.

  'You did a good job at Maribor,' Heljec remarked.

  He made the comment automatically, his eyes studying the curve of the rail track at the bottom of the gorge at a point where the train would be moving up a steep ascent and, therefore, going slowly.

  'It was routine, just a question of constant alertness.'

  'The journey back was difficult.'

  It was a statement Heljec was making. He expected miracles of endurance from his men but he never forgot to express his thanks afterwards. Jovanovic nodded his round head and pulled at the tip of his magnificent moustache, his most distinctive feature.

  'Again, it was a question of alertness,' he replied.

  This whole operation of ambushing the train was an experiment which had been personally sanctioned by Tito. They were, in fact, deep inside the hated Cetniks' country. The plan was to provoke the Germans into heavily reinforcing this area of Yugoslavia which, at the moment, was lightly held, and largely by Cetniks.

  A major success north of Zagreb would send shock waves through the German command which
could well extend to Berlin. Heljec was well aware of what was at stake and looking forward all the more to dealing the enemy a blow under the belt. It was worthwhile.

  'I am sure we have enough troops for the job,' Heljec remarked.

  'Forty men,' Vlatko again reassured him. 'All strategically placed. And we outnumber them heavily. That is the secret of war, Napoleon once said. Mass your forces - even if inferior - at the point where you will be superior to the enemy. Then you strike with everything you've got.'

  'You're right, of course,' Heljec agreed. 'It is the unexpected I am always watching for.'

  `So, at Maribor I found the data needed to plan this operation.'

  It had, Vlatko reflected without saying so aloud, been tricky on Maribor platform. The crowds had helped as he mingled with them observing the train which had just arrived from Spielfeld-Strass. A meticulous man, Vlatko had counted the number of cars. Eight, including the mail-van at the rear. '

  The Germans, knowing the area was swarming with spies, had acted with great secrecy. Not one of the Waffen SS hidden inside the mail-van had been allowed onto the platform to stretch his aching legs. Vlatko, who had once produced hand-made shoes for royalty, was unusually observant. He noticed omissions.

  Intrigued by the fact that no mail was unloaded, he loitered against a wall and watched. His patience was rewarded when the officer in charge opened the sliding doors a few inches and peered out. Vlatko, by the light of a lamp outside the coach, had a glimpse of German Army uniforms before the door closed again.

  'How long before the train leaves for Zagreb?' he had asked a railway official.

  `Half an hour at least. Maybe longer. Water has to be siphoned aboard.'

  'Then I have time for a drink if I can find a bar open?'

  'Have one for me.'

  Slipping out of the station, Vlatko had mounted the cycle he had left hidden in an alley and made his way out of the town to a remote farmhouse. Here he had paused to use a concealed transmitter to radio a brief message to Heljec.

  His work at the farmhouse completed, he had changed from using the cycle to an ancient motorbike, speeding through the night along a devious route following little-used side roads. He had reached Heljec's group waiting above the gorge before the train arrived.

  Even at this stage of the war, the Partisans' system of communications was remarkably well-organized. The Germans had attacked Yugoslavia in April 1941. Two years later the guerrillas had a whole network of couriers who travelled by pedal and motorcycle. They further employed numerous radio transmitters used only for the most urgent signals - hence the German radio-detector vans had so far not tracked down a single Partisan transmitter. As Vlatko had remarked, it was routine.

  'I have kept back one piece of unfortunate news,' Vlatko said in a hesitant voice.

  'What is it?' rasped Heljec. 'You- know I like to hear about any problems immediately.'

  'This we can do very little about.'

  'Spit it out man, for God's sake!'

  'While on the platform at Maribor I saw Paco boarding the train, I think she had a man with her...'

  'On the train we are waiting for? You think it was the Englishman we are supposed to receive weapons for?'

  'Possibly. I could not risk trying to warn her...'

  'Of course not! She must take her chances...' Now it was Heljec's turn to hesitate, a rare reaction. 'Which coach did she get inside?' he asked eventually.

  'A dangerous one - the coach immediately behind the engine and the tender with the German machine- gunner.'

  Heljec remained silent and brooding. Paco was the best courier he had ever met. She could, and would, go into areas any man might cringe at the thought of penetrating. For Christ's sake; she had just taken a group into and out of the Third Reich itself.

  'She is born lucky,' he said eventually.

  'You salve your conscience with illusions..

  'Damn you, the whole operation is set up!' Heljec blazed in an outburst of intense frustration. Why had Vlatko to tell him something like this at the last moment? Better that he should not have known until after the ambush had taken place. Better for myself, he thought. Heljec always made a great effort to be honest with himself.

  'Go down and tell the section attacking the engine and tender to use grenades as a last resource, to rely on machine-pistols.'

  'Too late. Here comes the train …'

  Paco had the corner seat away from the corridor and facing the engine. Her eyes were closed and her head was flopped on Lindsay's shoulder as the train crawled up a steep gradient. He found it a comforting sensation.

  It was his sole consolation. The compartment was crammed with peasants shoulder to shoulder, most of them fast asleep. Leg-room was non-existent: a tangled sprawl of legs filled the space. It crossed Lindsay's mind that in case of emergency they were in a good position — next to the door.

  He checked the time, carefully easing up the cuff of his sleeve to avoid disturbing her. 3.10 am. He should have woken her at three. They had worked out a roster so one of them would always be awake. He decided to let her sleep on.

  'You're cheating, you nice bastard,' she murmured. 'I saw the time...'

  'Get back to sleep — I'm quite fresh.'

  'Liar, nice liar..' She suppressed a yawn. 'Where are we? Why are we travelling so slowly?'

  'As far as I can see we're moving through some kind of gorge...'

  'Zidani Most will be the next stop, then Zagreb... 'If you say so...'

  'Lindsay, you're comfortable to sleep against.. 'Now she tells me — just when we have all this privacy.'

  She snuggled up closer and watched him through half-closed eyes. 'Lindsay, I might accept your suggestion to get some more sleep. You know what? You're a corrupting. influence. I think I like it.— being corrupted...' She kept her voice so low no one could have heard her using his name. She closed her eyes and immediately opened them as she felt him stiffen. The soft murmur was replaced by an urgent whisper. 'What's wrong?'

  'It's crazy. I thought I saw someone on the track outside.'

  The first phase.of the attack opened when one of Heljec's men jumped on to the train step of the slow- moving coach next to the mail-van. Easing his way round the end, he took a grenade from his belt, extracted the pin, laid the grenade on the coupling and jumped off.

  In the confined space between the two coaches the grenade detonated with a muffled thump. The coupling snapped and the mail-van started running backwards down the steep gradient. Near the end of the train a second man flashed a light on and off twice, signalling to the group opposite the engine and tender.

  The commander of the Waffen SS unit inside the mail-van reacted in the only way he could, sliding back the door to see what was happening. The muzzles of several machine-pistols poked through the opening at the very moment, five grenades landed inside the coach. A series of explosions shook the coach which was now moving at speed.

  The rear wheels smashed into the huge tree trunk dragged on to the line, half-mounted on the obstacle, then the mail-van left the line, smashing over on its side. Flames appeared and the van began to burn. No survivors appeared.

  At the front of the train the flashing of the lamp triggered the second phase of the attack. The German soldier crouched behind the machine-gun saw vague shapes moving in the dark. He pressed the trigger, unaware that a grenade had landed on top of the tender a few inches from his side.

  The gun began to stutter. The grenade exploded with a loud crack. The German and his weapon were lifted off the tender and hurled on to the track. On either side of the engine dark silhouettes had mounted the footplate. Knives, were wielded with savage efficiency and neither of the two Germans in the cab loosed off a shot. The attack had occupied the space of less than a hundred seconds.

  'We're getting out...'

  Lindsay had grabbed both cases from the rack as Paco threw open the door. She snatched her case off him and beyond the open doorway felt with her foot for the train step. No point in
breaking an ankle. She was by the side of the track as Lindsay jumped down and joined her.

  Confusion. Chaos. Men tumbling in panic to leave the train, shouting. The slap of doors opening, slamming against the side of coaches. Women screaming. The horror had only begun.

  'We must get clear of the train...' Lindsay. 'It's a Partisan ambush...' Paco.

  'Up the side of the bloody gorge!' Lindsay.

  He grabbed her arm, hauled her up what seemed like the face of a mountain cluttered with boulders. A searchlight stabbed out from a coach half-way along the train. It helped them to scramble round the huge boulders, climbing higher and higher. A group of Partisans were caught in the glare of the light. The stutter of machine-pistols rattled out a fusillade - from the train.

  'The Germans are among the passengers,' Paco gasped.

  The hail of fire cut down the Partisans illuminated by the powerful light. Out of the corner of his eye Lindsay saw men falling in grotesque attitudes, somersaulting down the slope, falling where they had stood.

  'Keep climbing!' Lindsay ordered, dragging her up when she hesitated at the sight.

  Retaliation came, ruthless and terrible. Grenades exploded near the searchlight, many falling among passengers trapped on the lower slopes. Intermingled with the thud of grenades, the rattle of machine-pistol fire, came the agonized screams of terrified and wounded passengers.

  Regardless of the Yugoslav civilians, the Partisan attack continued to concentrate on killing Germans. It was a bloodbath. A tangle of petrified passengers followed the wrong route, still using the illuminated path of the German searchlight to get away. Lindsay saw more grenades fly through the beam, land and detonate among them.

  'Shoot out that bloody searchlight, you crazy fools,' he snarled at the unseen attackers above.

  'They have to kill the Germans,' Paco gasped.

  There was a sudden silence — as though some unseen commander had ordered a cease fire. Then three rapid rifle cracks. Lindsay heard — in the eery hush — the trickling shatter of glass. The light dimmed, faded, vanished.