The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  'You are sure that is Rudolf Roessler? A man like that could have a double. We all have a double. Did I tell you once...'

  'His tram is coming.' The first hint of excitement appeared in the voice of the smaller man. 'Be ready. The other teams are in position?'

  'Of course.'

  The tram rumbled wearily towards the stop. It had started to rain, a gentle, wetting drizzle like a sea-mist drifting in off the lake. Roessler absent-mindedly fastened the top button of his coat, a pointless action since in a moment he would be inside the tram. It stopped, its sides gleaming with globules of moisture, and Roessler climbed aboard. As was his habit he chose a seat at the back. A woman hurried aboard and sat beside him, much to the annoyance of Roessler who preferred to be alone. He glanced furtively sideways. 'Anna...!'

  'Shush! Keep your voice down. You are being followed. You see those two men sitting in the seat near the exit door, the ones who came aboard at your stop...'

  Roessler was bewildered. First the unprecedented appearance of his wife who had never before met him on his way home. Now this absurdly melodramatic story... To get his bearings he performed an everyday action, taking off his rain-smeared glasses to clean them. He was going to use the corner of his handkerchief when his wife took them from him.

  'Give them to me. You'll smear them, make them worse...'

  Without his glasses the world was a blur. He stared at the vague silhouettes of the backs of the two men. He had not even noticed them boarding the tram. His wife had taken a tissue from her handbag to clean the glasses.

  'What is happening?' he asked. 'I don't understand — we are in Switzerland. We are safe...'

  'We thought we were safe,' Anna corrected him.

  She handed back the glasses. With a sense of relief he put them on and the world came back into focus. Droplets of rain ran down the windows of the tram. He followed one droplet as it zigzagged an irregular course. He was frightened.

  'What are you talking about?' he asked. 'You said earlier I was being followed. By whom?'

  His coat smelt of damp wool. He should have brought a raincoat instead. But earlier in the day...

  'I don't know,' Anna replied, keeping her voice low. 'The first thing I noticed several days ago was the men following you to work in the morning. I was watching from behind the net curtains as you went off to catch your tram. Two men had been standing on the opposite pavement, apparently talking to each other. It was raining heavily. Neither had an umbrella and they were getting soaked. It seemed odd...'

  'You're imagining all this,' he muttered.

  'Wait till I've finished! Then tell me I'm imagining it. I went on watching. You crossed the street and you were no more than one hundred metres away when they began to follow you. As you disappeared round a corner they broke into a trot to catch up...'

  'The same men as those sitting in that seat?'

  He was beginning to believe her. Ever since they had fled from Germany before the war, he had felt secure once they crossed the Swiss border. He didn't want to believe her.

  'Not the same men. A different pair...'

  'There you are!' He relaxed, sagged against the back of the seat. 'It's all a coincidence. I told you it was your imagination...'

  'Men are watching our apartment by day and night...'

  Oh, God! They sat there as the tram stopped, the doors opened, people got off, a man got on, the doors closed, they were off again. The two men Anna had pointed out remained in their seat, exchanging not a word. Roessler glanced up at the angled mirror to help passengers board and alight. One of the men in the seat was staring at him. Roessler looked away. It was becoming a nightmare.

  'We're there,' said Anna. 'Get off as though. nothing is wrong. Don't look at the men. Don't trip on the steps...'

  They had reached the suburb of Wesemlin where they rented the small apartment they had taken in 1933. Anna is so strong, he thought. She walked to the exit with a firm tread, paused for him to catch her up, then stepped down into the street. On the pavement, in the reflection from his freshly-cleaned glasses, he saw the two men hurry down the steps seconds before the automatic doors closed. It was one of the worst moments of his life.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jaeger timed the moment for the attack from the half- track with great perception. By now the motorcyclists with their short-range barrage from the machine- pistols had the Partisans scrambling all over the slope, seeking altitude. Jaeger stood behind the powerful searchlight which had not yet been brought into play. An NCO called Olden manned the swivel-mounted machine-gun with a range far greater than that of a machine-pistol.

  'Olden,' Jaeger warned, 'I think we should have them scattering like ants. Brace yourself for when I turn on the light...'

  'I am ready when you are, Colonel...'

  There was a bitter note in Olden's voice. Back there in the other gorge he had lost comrades he had campaigned with in the wastes of Russia. Christ, one or two even went back to France, 1940!

  The half-track went on rumbling forward, its caterpillars creaking and rattling. Jaeger aimed the powerful searchlight at an extreme angle, turned as far as it would go to the right.

  'I'll sweep in a slow arc from right to left,' he called out to Olden. 'Maybe bob up and down a bit.. 'Understood, Colonel.'

  Olden swivelled the barrel of his gun far right. They had to work in concert to gain maximum results. He was glad the Colonel was operating the light. Jaeger was alert, ice-cold at such a moment. His night vision was exceptional....

  The light came on. A beam like an anti-aircraft searchlight lit up the slope. Tiny figures scattered across the slope made the fatal mistake of turning in surprise, and were blinded by the glare. Olden's gun began to clatter.

  From the half-track they saw the figures dropping. The noise of the engine, the tracks and Olden's gun drowned the screams of the Partisans caught in the open. The beam swept towards the left, paused, dropping and climbing while Olden's gun synchronized with the movement' of the beam.

  High up on the slope Heljec, leading a group of men up a defile, paused. Snatching a rifle from the man behind, he told them to continue without him and climbed out of the deep notch. Releasing the safety catch, he stood and watched.

  Panic. Partisans were running like thoughtless rabbits to escape the probe of the deadly beam. The first priority was to shoot out that bloody searchlight. It would not be easy. The half-track's commander was a clever bastard. He was varying the speed of the vehicle. Not only a moving target - also an erratic one.

  Heljec pressed the butt of his rifle firmly into his shoulder. He aimed a score of metres ahead of the half-track's progress, waited. Take out that light and the gunner was blind. Patiently he waited as the half-track crawled up to his line of fire.

  The searchlight swivelled without warning. One moment it was a beam of light searching the slope over to his left. Then it moved, jerked, stopped. Heljec was caught in the full glare of the great eye of light.

  Heljec dropped. Dropped his rifle. Dropped to the ground. He was rolling as he hit the earth. He spun like a child's top with incredible speed. Hands clasped on top of his head. Forearms protecting his face. Rolling. He reached the edge of the defile, rolled over the edge, dropped six feet and hit the base with a thud.

  He had just reached the edge when Olden's gun began to hammer. As he dropped out of sight slivers of rock slashed off by Olden's bullets skimmed over his head. He lay where he had fallen on his bruised shoulder, listening to the drum-fire. Waste your bloody bullets, you stupid mental deficient...'

  In the gorge below, both Olden and Jaeger were convinced they had scored another hit. There had been only a fraction in time between Olden's barrage following the searchlight beam and the figure with the rifle dropping.

  'Cease fire!' he ordered Olden, and doused the searchlight.

  From the viewpoint of military tactics he was correct. He had fully exploited the element of surprise. He had caused heavy casualties among the Partisans. The sight
of a man standing aiming a rifle warned him the surprise was gone. The half-track - with the searchlight turned on - had become a potential target.

  'We've tanned their hides!' Jaeger shouted. 'Now, get to hell out of it - join up with the others in the plain.'

  'Perhaps we should walk past our apartment - to confuse the men who are following us,' Roessler suggested.

  His glasses were already misted up again. He was confused and depressed. A superb wireless operator, a man of stubborn courage, he was hopeless in the present situation. Unlike his wife.

  'Don't be silly,' she said. 'They know exactly where we live. The thing to do is not to let them know we've rumbled them. We carry on as usual...'

  'It could be very dangerous... Anna,' he observed suddenly, 'look at that stationary car. You can't see inside it...'

  'Don't try. Act normal. Just walk across the street to our apartment.'

  She spoke confidently but the car - parked dead opposite to their apartment block entrance - had fine- mesh, dark-coloured curtains drawn. It was impossible to see whether there was anyone inside.

  'Coffee!' Roessler said once they were inside their apartment.

  'I'm already making it.'

  Roessler had no vices except coffee - of which he consumed litres. He walked restlessly over to the window...'

  'Don't twitch those curtains!' warned Anna.

  'What are we going to do? Those two men on the tram are standing in the rain with their hands in their pockets. This really is dreadful. And tonight I have to contact Woodpecker...'

  'You'll feel better after coffee. We must contact Masson.'

  Roessler cheered up a little at her mention of the chief of Swiss counter-espionage. Then, standing by the window, careful not to touch the curtains, he froze. Blinking, he took off his glasses, put them on again and stared down into the street. He was excited as he called out.

  'Anna! Brigadier Masson is here! He has just got out of that car. He's coming over to see us..

  'In broad daylight!' She appeared with the pot of coffee and cups on a tray. 'You must be wrong...'

  Brigadier Roger Masson, dressed in civilian clothes, strolled over the deserted street and pressed the bell. Roessler operated the release button for the downstairs front door without even checking his identity on the speak-phone. He had the apartment door open as the Swiss came up the stairs, his normally cheerful expression grave.

  'You should have made sure who it was,' he said mildly. 'I must ask you from now on to take every precaution. Things have changed - and not for the better.'

  Masson was choosing his words with care. It was a delicate business, this visit to Roessler at his apartment. He had to alert him - but not alarm him.

  The Swiss counter-espionage chief was nervous and sensitive - attributes he normally concealed with a cheerful manner. The fact that he was dressed in his civilian clothes didn't help, he felt more at home in uniform.

  'Coffee?' suggested Anna. 'Let me take your coat and hang it up - it's damp...'

  'That's very kind of you...'

  As he took off the coat Masson wandered over to the window and gazed into the street. Roessler joined him; his eyes behind the glasses had a feverish look.

  'I am being followed. Since several days. It was Anna who first noticed...'

  'For one week,' Masson said with typical precision. 'They are my men - working round the clock in relays. It is merely a precaution for your protection.'

  'Why now? Something has happened?'

  'I wouldn't say the timing has any particular significance. It is simply that your work is so important - to us as well as to the Russians …'

  Masson sat down in an armchair by the small table where Anna had placed his cup of coffee. Roessler joined him in a nearby chair and drank greedily from his own cup, his eyes never leaving the Swiss.

  'This is 1943,' he said after consuming half the cup. 'It is now over two years since Hitler invaded Russia. What has happened recently to make my work - so important is the phrase you used, I believe. You must be employing a lot of valuable men to have me guarded round the clock - again to use your own phrase, I believe...'

  Masson forced himself to relax. He smiled and his bright blue eyes expressed confidence. The trouble was Roessler was shrewd - to say nothing of Anna. It was a godsend he had come to see them today. The moment he walked into the apartment he had sensed a new atmosphere - wariness on the part of Anna, something close to panic on the part of Roessler. He waved a reassuring hand.

  'Before, there was this terrible shortage of staff. Suddenly I am allocated more men. Now I can look after you properly - as befits your importance...'

  He sipped his coffee as Anna perched on the arm of her husband's chair. He was relieved to see Roessler trying to assume an expression of modesty which did not reflect his true reaction. It was certainly a truism, Masson thought to himself: flattery did get you somewhere. Cautiously he pressed a little further.

  'When you visit us at the Villa Stutz it might be an idea if you varied the route and timing of your calls.

  It will give my men a little practice in keeping tabs on you. Regard it as a game...'

  'I'll do that...'

  Roessler had started on the cup Anna had just refilled, still revelling in the rosy glow of Masson's compliments. The feverish expression was disappearing. What a strange man this German is, the Swiss chief reflected. Outwardly so ordinary and middle- aged, you could pass him on the street and never recall you had passed anyone. Which was an advantage, of course.

  Anyway, he had pulled it off. Best clear out before there was an unfortunate turn in the conversation. Leave well alone. He finished his cup, refused a refill from Anna and stood up, smiling amiably. Now, leave …'

  'Well, Hans, I think I managed that; said Masson, settling himself in the front passenger seat of the limousine.

  He sighed. He glanced at Roessler's apartment window as the driver performed an illegal U-turn and headed for the Villa Stutz. What a quaint man RR was.

  The driver, the only other occupant of the large car, was Captain Hans Hausamann. In peacetime he had run a business which provided him with invaluable contacts all over Europe as far as Finland.

  At the outbreak of war Hausamann had been recruited by the Swiss Commander-in-Chief, General Guisan. His business contacts provided a ready-made network which kept the Swiss High Command in touch with developments across the whole continent. He now controlled the highly secret counter-espionage system centred at the Villa Stutz known as the Bureau Ha.

  'You sighed,' Hausamann commented. 'They gave you a rough ride?'

  'Not really. After a little initial awkwardness I convinced RR our people watching him were a simple precautionary measure...'

  'And he swallowed that one?'

  'I think he did, yes.' Masson thought for a moment. 'Anna, of course, is a quite different proposition. She knows something is very wrong but I can rely on her to soothe RR...'

  RR was how they referred to Rudolf Roessler. It was not a code reference - someone had started calling him that and it had become standard practice.

  'You're sure about Anna?' Hausamann pressed. 'You know her...'

  'We conspire over RR's head.' Masson smiled briefly. 'I know her only concern is her husband's peace of mind. So she always goes along with me in an emergency. And, boy, have we got an emergency on our hands...'

  They drove in silence the rest of the way. It is no more than eight kilometres to the district of Kastanienbaum where a lonely cape projects into the lake. Half a kilometre further, Hausamann pulled up outside the Villa Stutz. It is a very peaceful spot. But so is Bletchley, England, where Ultra operated from. And so was Prae Wood near St Albans, the headquarters of Section V where Whelby had his desk.

  The wrought-iron gates in the outer wall were opened by a man dressed in a Tyrolean hat, a dark raincoat and leather boots. The gates were closed behind the limousine as it was driven up to the front entrance and stopped.

  'I was just think
ing,' Masson remarked, 'that when I first joined Intelligence I had ideals. I had no idea I would spend most of my life persuading others to tell the truth while I told nothing but lies. Even if by omission...'

  'I don't follow you,' replied Hausamann who always spoke his mind.

  'RR - I left him happy-happy. How would he react if he knew that Switzerland is now swarming with German agents dedicated to tracking him down? That this is the reason we blanket his life with our own men? At least we can console ourselves with the fact that the Germans - Schellenberg in particular, thank God - have no idea of what is going on...'

  Masson did not realize it but this was probably the most naïve statement he made in his whole career.

  NDA FRX NDA FRX... NDA FRX...

  It was exactly midnight when Roessler, hunched half-inside his cupboard over the transceiver, tapped out the call sign for Moscow Centre. Even then Soviet agents were in the habit of referring to Russian State Security headquarters as 'The Centre'.

  Earlier Roessler had received a signal from Woodpecker which he was now trying to re-transmit to Moscow. He was crouched over the instrument when a hand appeared with a cup of coffee. Still not sure that her husband had recovered from his fright earlier in the day, Anna had decided he would get extra coffee tonight.

  She need not have worried. Once he was ensconced in his minute working quarters only one thing existed for Rudolf Roessler - the transceiver, the receipt and sending of signals. He had, in fact, forgotten all about the visit of Roger Masson.

  He repeated the call sign two more times. As agreed, for this phase he was using the 43-metre band. And his 'fist' was firm and normal as he tapped out the dots and dashes.

  His next move was to switch to the 39-metre band, again as per the arrangement. He waited. He drank half his cup of scalding coffee. He was busy. He was happy. He was ruling the world...

  NDA OK QSR5... NDA OK QSR5...

  Moscow was responding to his call. He waited again. Within seconds came a series of five letters and five figures - masking the code chosen for this transmission.