by Colin Forbes
'It really doesn't matter whether I get through or not. That's being realistic. The diary must get through. And it would help if you got through with it. There is a first-class seat booked on the plane for you..
'Thank you...'
Hartmann puffed at his pipe which no longer tasted so good. He was disturbed by Lindsay's attitude, the sense of fatalism in the RAF officer he detected. And all the time they had talked, Lindsay had been watching the two small silhouettes walking slowly round the plateau. Paco and Reader.
NDA OK QSR5 NDA OK QSR5..
Seconds later Meyer, listening at the Dresden Monitoring Centre with Walter Schellenberg opposite him, recorded a series of five letters and five figures. They provided the agreed code.
'Now,' said Meyer, 'we switch from the 43-metre band, which The Ghost uses only for the call sign, to the 39-metre band. That's the wavelength on which they transmit the main signal...'
Meyer had cracked Lucy's system.
It had taken months of patient experimentation but the peacetime watchmaker had persisted. Schellenberg's shrewd eyes gleamed with triumph as he leaned forward, a pair of headphones over his ears.
Ten minutes later the transmission Meyer was recording ended. It was the night before Jaeger was due to launch his airborne attack on the plateau in Bosnia. Schellenberg removed his headphones, stood up, reached an arm across the table and shook hands with Meyer.
'You are a genius. You will go down in history. You know this, I hope?'
'I have just done my job.'
'And the mobile monitoring station at Strasbourg..
The 'phone inside the glass cubicle rang. Meyer reached for the instrument and nodded to Schellenberg.
'This will be them, I suspect. They're very quick …'
He identified himself, nodded again to Schellenberg, listening with only the occasional comment.
'Again? As on previous occasions. You're quite sure?'
He thanked the caller profusely, a point Schellenberg did not miss. The chief of the SD - SS Intelligence - never did miss a point. Meyer, always so modest, had trouble concealing his satisfaction.
'Strasbourg has pinpointed the location of The Ghost for the fourth time. It is Switzerland. It is Lucerne.'
'I've got him! Masson of the Swiss Intelligence.' Schellenberg shook his head in reluctant awe at the audacity of his Swiss opposite number. 'He is permitting a secret transmitter to send signals to the Soviets. We know it's the Soviets...'
'Because they always use five letters and five figures for the code,' Meyer interjected.
'Exactly! After all these months!' Schellenberg couldn't keep still. It was this uninhibited and infectious enthusiasm he displayed which partly explained his popularity with subordinates. 'Now I can break Masson! Compel him to reveal the identity of the Soviet spy at the Wolf's Lair! We may be in time to change the outcome of the whole war.'
It was typical of Schellenberg that he talked openly to Meyer about the most closely guarded state secrets. Meyer was completely trustworthy. By sharing his confidence Schellenberg gained his subordinate's total loyalty, his incredible application to his task.
'I gambled on this fourth confirmation,' Schellenberg continued. 'I have already made an appointment to meet Masson within hours inside Switzerland...'
'They will let you across the border?'
Meyer was astounded. Technically it was a gross violation of Switzerland's precious neutrality which that country preserved in a way a girl protects her virginity.
'I travel incognito,' Schellenberg explained with a flamboyant flourish. 'There have been previous visits. Now, I must leave Dresden immediately. Brigadier Roger Masson, I am coming...' Snow was falling heavily as he hurried from the building.
It was ten o'clock at night in Zagreb when Jaeger heard from the guard-room downstairs in the old villa that Karl Gruber of the Gestapo was waiting to see him.
'Tell him to wait!' Jaeger slammed down the 'phone and turned to Schmidt who sat at another desk, poring over a map of Bosnia. 'We need every minute to check over the details of Operation Raven, we'll be damned lucky to get an hour's sleep and who do you think lands on our doorstep? Gruber of the Gestapo!'
'He must smell profitable pickings - to risk his precious skin even in Zagreb. You'd better see him.
Get to know what he's up to and we can sidetrack him.'
'You're right, of course.' Jaeger's admission was reluctant. 'You always are,' he added drily.
'Shall I go down and bring him up myself? I could twist his tail first. Tell him how busy you are. Is it really that important? Better get some sleep and leave it till morning. I might just pull it off! We'll be gone by morning.'
'You'll be lucky! Not a word about Operation Raven,' he warned.
'Do I look thick?' Schmidt enquired.
'Ask an embarrassing question, expect an embarrassing reply.'
On the eve of the parachute drop the two men had, if possible, drawn even closer together. I'm born lucky to have Schmidt, Jaeger reflected as he waited alone. I should have stopped him coming on this thing...'
He only had to wait a few minutes. There was a knock on the door. He called out Enter! And framed in the doorway stood Gruber accompanied by Willy Maisel. The whole bloody clown act had arrived. Behind the two Gestapo agents Schmidt threw up a mock salute.
Jaeger sat behind his desk like a man of stone, offering no greeting. He noted Schmidt had rolled up the map on his desk before going downstairs. Trust him to attend, unbidden, to the small details.
The two Gestapo officials, sat in chairs Schmidt placed some distance from the desk. Gruber promptly shifted his closer to the desk. He extended a pudgy hand which Jaeger, glancing down at his papers, pretended not to notice. He thought Willy Maisel looked unhappy about the whole business.
Gruber swivelled round in his chair. He stared at Schmidt, now seated behind his desk. He turned back to stare at Jaeger from under pouched eyes. There were signs of fatigue about both men.
'This is highly confidential,' Gruber began. 'It would be better if we were alone, if you please.'
'I don't please. And your suggestion is an insult to Schmidt who would automatically assume my command if anything happened to me.'
'Is something going to happen to you, Colonel?' Gruber asked.
'Something could happen to any of us. The Croat rebels like to place time-bombs in the most unexpected places. You would be a prime target if they gain knowledge of your presence...'
He had the satisfaction of seeing the dough-faced Gestapo officer wince. Again he said nothing more, forcing Gruber to make all the running.
'We understand you may soon have Wing Commander Lindsay in your hands. He is to be handed over to us for questioning at Gestapo headquarters in Graz.'
'Thumb-screws and pliers for a little amateur nail-varnishing?' Jaeger shook his head. 'Not a chance. If
we ever apprehend Lindsay again I shall personally escort him into the presence of the Fuhrer at the
Wolf's Lair.'
Gruber lost his temper. Maisel lifted his eyes to the ceiling as his companion snatched a folded document from his pocket and threw it on the desk. He raised a clenched fist to crash it on the desk as he opened his mouth to speak. Then he caught Jaeger's expression. The fist dissolved in mid-air.
'My instructions,' he said in a normal tone, 'are by order of the Fuhrer.'
Jaeger unfolded the sheet, watching Gruber all the time. Then he read the document carefully, refolded it and handed it back politely. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms.
'That bit of bumf is Signed by Bormann. I have a document granting me full powers - signed by the Fuhrer himself. Go back to your headquarters and get some sleep. Better still, go to the airfield and fly back to Germany. I cannot guarantee your safety any longer in this part of the world. It's up to you...' He stood up, clasping his hands out of the way behind his back. 'A safe journey, gentlemen...'
'Open the van yourself, Moshe. See what is within your
grasp after you have carried out the assignment, said Vlacek.
He handed his small, heavily-built companion a key. The van stood inside a secluded courtyard in a remote part of Jerusalem. Moshe - it was not his real name - was a commander of the Stern Gang, one of the most active and violent of the Jewish underground groups.
Moshe took the key, looked again swiftly round the cobbled yard and inserted the key in the lock. He opened the left-hand door and stared at the pile of freshly-greased Lee Enfield.303 rifles. At the back of the van was a pile of ammunition boxes.
'Hurry up,' urged Vlacek. 'This is sight of the goods only. Delivery only after the job is done.'
'This Lindsay you want liquidating. When is he coming in?'
'Soon. Soon. He will be flown into Lydda Airport.' 'Too well-guarded.'
'Wait till I've finished, Vlacek snapped. 'He will stay in Jerusalem for one day, possibly two. You will be told where he is being kept. You will know immediately he arrives...'
Dark-haired with a sun-tanned complexion, the skin pitted with old pock-marks, Moshe nodded dubiously, climbed inside the van and picked up a rifle at random.
Testing the mechanism after checking to make sure it was unloaded, he released the safety catch, squinted along the sight under cover of the van and pressed the trigger. Laying down the rifle, he walked over to one of the boxes, produced a tool from under his shabby jacket and levered the top off the box.
He picked up a handful of cartridges, selected one, took it back to the rifle and inserted the cartridge in the breech. First, he had put back on the safety catch, much to Vlacek's relief. Extracting the cartridge he threw it back into the box and dropped the rifle. With an agile movement he jumped out of the van and left Vlacek to close and lock it.
'Your Lindsay is dead,' he said.
It was a bitter irony. At the starting point of Lindsay's journey Reader bartered guns to save the RAF officer's life, to fly him to the safety of the Middle East.
In Palestine Vlacek used guns stolen-from a British Army depot to pay the Stern Gang to end Lindsay's life. In the vicious turmoil of war it was not money - not gold - which was the universal currency. It was guns.
As soon as Moshe had driven away on his motorcycle, Vlacek made a signal. The double doors of one of the buildings enclosing the abandoned courtyard were opened. Inside stood a larger van without markings, its rear doors open. Two heavy planks formed a ramp leading up to its interior.
Vlacek himself took the wheel of the smaller van loaded with the guns and ammo. He drove it with great skill across the yard, up the improvised ramp and inside the larger van. The other man closed the doors and hurried to the cab.
Within minutes of Moshe's departure the larger van moved under the archway leading into the deserted street beyond. Keeping well within the speed limit, it followed a devious route to another courtyard a couple of miles away where it was parked inside a similar building.
Vlacek emerged from the larger vehicle, brushing dust off his clothes. He had no intention of risking the Stern Gang mounting a raid to seize the rifles before they completed their side of the arrangement. As in Yugoslavia, there was no trust anywhere.
'1100 hours tomorrow,' said Reader as he closed the telescopic aerial of his transceiver. 'They're sending a Dakota, God help us. Let's hope they send us one with wings on...'
'That's really positive?' asked Paco. 'No reservations?'
'Gospel. I've given them the map reference. Lady, you want a ticket to convince you.'
'You know bloody well we've had enough false alarms before...'
'They're coming. They want Lindsay. Some geezer has flown out specially to meet him.'
'What geezer?' Lindsay demanded, suddenly alert.
It was well after dark. Huddled together in a cave, Lindsay, Paco and Hartmann had waited for Reader to come back after operating the transceiver from an eminence at the edge of the plateau. It had stopped snowing, one hopeful sign. But it was bitingly cold. No fires could be lit. Heljec had banned them.
'Can't tell you more till we're aboard the plane and away,' Reader replied laconically. 'Instructions.' He slipped inside his makeshift sleeping-bag.
'Whose instructions? What is our destination? Why all this mystery?'
Lindsay was uneasy. He couldn't have said exactly why, but he felt something was wrong. Reader snuggled down, made no effort to conceal his irritation.
'Security, I suppose. Now, mate, do I get some shut-eye or are you going to yammer on the whole bleedin' night? You've a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Haven't we all?'
'H-Hour is 1100,' Schmidt informed Jaeger as he put down the 'phone. 'Just came through from Stoerner himself.'
'I know.' The Colonel initialled the last operational order and pushed the sheet across his desk, then stretched and yawned. 'I decided on the time for the attack myself. Not dawn as usual, they'll be alert for trouble then. By eleven they will have relaxed, decided it's just another peaceful day. I'm so tired I could fall asleep in this chair...'
'On your feet,' said Schmidt. 'I didn't have these camp beds brought in here to decorate the room.'
Jaeger stood up, stripped off his tunic, sat on the camp bed and took off his jump boots. He had put them on in the morning to get used to them. Supple, comfortable jump boots can make the difference between life and death to a paratrooper.
Lying full-length on the bed, he pulled the army blanket over him, Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at Schmidt before closing his eyes.
'1100 hours tomorrow. Sleep well.'
Chapter Forty
General Walter Schellenberg was driven across the Swiss border at Konstanz. He would have never known he was moving into another country had he not passed through a frontier control post. Konstanz is one of Europe's geographical oddities.
The town is literally split in two. The northern district is German, the Southern Swiss. Seated in the back of the Mercedes, its windows masked with net curtains, he wore a smart civilian suit. The pause at the post lasted no longer than one minute. Brigadier Masson had sent an aide who brushed aside all normal formalities.
It was late evening, very dark - the night was moonless - as the Mercedes proceeded to a small place called Frauenfeld. Brigadier Masson awaited his guest in an upper room of the Gasthof Winkelreid.
A table was laid for dinner. Solid silver cutlery. Superbly polished glass which gleamed in the candlelight. Schellertberg's favourite wine in an ice bucket cradled in a tripod. The panelled walls reflected the faint shiver of the candles.
'My dear Brigadier Masson! What a pleasure to meet you again! If you knew how relaxing it is for me each time I visit Switzerland! For a few hours I forget all my cares and worries.'
Schellenberg was at his most charming and ebullient, so cordial that his manner would have disarmed a man less wary than the Swiss Intelligence chief.
Masson's mood was quite different. He greeted the German with courtesy but his expression was cool and aloof, almost cold. A sensitive Man, Schellenberg spotted the change in atmosphere from his previous visit but pretended not to notice.
They had dinner.
'I came across a Rubens recently... quite by chance... a supreme example of his genius.'
Schellenberg ate and drank with enjoyment and appreciation. He talked intelligently. Old master paintings. Goethe's work. A new French novel. Beethoven's music. Masson simply listened, his blue eyes studying the German's mobile expressions.
It was only when dinner was over, when they had retired to two armchairs drawn up in front of a fireplace where half a tree trunk blazed, crackled and spat, that something snapped.
No servants would enter the room again unless summoned by Masson. Schellenberg held his balloon- shaped glass of fine old Napoleon brandy up to the light. He was gazing contentedly at the glass when he spoke.
'The Fuhrer's life is in danger. You are responsible. You are harbouring a Soviet spy transmitting our top secrets to Moscow. Immediately the Fuhrer knows this he will order an in
vasion of Switzerland. Who is the spy at the Fuhrer's headquarters? I have come for his name.'
Jock Carson was sitting at the bare wooden table in the office placed at his disposal in the police barracks by Sergeant Mulligan. Through the open window he could see the lights of Jerusalem, there was no blackout here.
A faint stench of cordite, which he always associated with death, drifted in with the cloying night air. It was uncomfortably humid. He stared at the table, its well-scrubbed surface disfigured with old ink stains. He had been waiting for a call from Cairo for over an hour. The 'phone rang twice only before he whipped up the receiver.
'Carson here. That you, Harrington? We're on a direct army line so get on with it. Any gen?'
'We may have panned a little gold.' Harrington's voice was faint but clear, clear enough for Carson to detect triumph.
'I said get on with it, for Christ's sake ….'
'You know that list of names you gave me of people staying at the Hotel Sharon? Well, I've checked it with the register at Shepheard's. Apart from Standish there is one common denominator. Man called Vlacek. V. Vlacek. V for Victor.'
'How long was he at Shepheard's?'
'Two nights. The night before Standish arrived -- and the night Standish was there.'
'Pity we don't know when Standish knew he was flying out, Who is this Vlacek?' Carson asked.
'A perfectly respectable Pole working for that funny propaganda outfit near Abassia Barracks. Come out from Russia with the Polish Army..
'From Russia!'
'What's up, Chief?' Harrington sounded perplexed. 'It's the Nazis we're fighting, not the Russians.'
'Sometimes I wonder. This Vlacek seems to have a licence to roam...'
'I checked that, too. Discreetly. Gather he had overdue leave. Decided to take it on the spur of the moment...'
'That's it! What I've been looking for. That really is stretching the long arm of coincidence to breaking- point. An interview with Mr Vlacek is overdue. And we've damn-all time left.'