Bormann returned to his own quarters, trudging slowly through the snow, in a state of turmoil. The past few days had been the busiest of his life. He had taken decision after decision, his mind too full of the present to look into the future.
Vaguely he had assumed that Heinz Kuby would be putty in his hands, to be moulded in any shape he wished. Now the 'robot' he had created was taking on a life and will of its own – and there was nothing he could do about it.
From the outbreak of World War Two, Adolf Hitler had demonstrated he was a military genius – fit to rank with Caesar, Frederick the Great and Wellington. In half-a-dozen crises he had proved his enormously superior flair.
April 1940. It was Hitler who had enthusiastically approved and backed the audacious invasion of Denmark and Norway. While his generals wrung their hands and predicted disaster, Hitler had ordered that the plans devised by Admiral Raeder should proceed.
Norway! A thousand miles of open sea and coastline. from its southern tip of North Cape – with the British Navy based at nearby Scapa Flow. Madness! Hitler had contemptuously waved aside all objections. Go ahead! Invade, General Falkenhorst! The plan had succeeded.
France! It was Hitler who put all his authority behind one general's crazy operation – Guderian's fantastic panzer drive through the 'impassable' roads of, the Ardennes, bursting out into the open country beyond, thundering across the Meuse bridges at Sedan. On and on towards the Channel while, again, his general staff shivered in their shoes and repeated their forecasts of disaster!
That was until the British were driven back across the water inside their inland fortress – and France fell within weeks. It was such brilliant successes which had cowed the High Command, which had led to Hitler being able to appoint his own tame men, Keitel and Jodl, to the peak of the command structure.
All this passed through Bormann's mind as, bleak- faced, he walked alone on that fateful afternoon under lowering skies in March 1943. What did the future hold? This was what obsessed him.
The plans of the Allied military dispositions in North Africa lay spread out on Colonel-General Jodl's desk. They had been delivered to him two hours earlier at his request by Ian Lindsay. Now the Englishman sat waiting and wondering as he struggled to conceal the tension inside him.
Jodl had time to communicate with the German High Command in Tunis – whose forces faced those of General Alexander. What would the verdict be? The Englishman was becoming aware there was something devious in Alfred Jodl's expression and nature. It would take an agile mind to survive the domestic warfare of the Wolf's Lair.
'I have communicated the contents of these plans to Tunis. I have further had their reaction to what you say purports to be the Allied order of battle..'
Jodl paused, tapping a pencil gently on his desk. A naked bulb shed a harsh light over the military documents. It was early in the evening, as black as pitch in the compound outside, where dense mist blotted out the masked lights. Jodl was playing with him – Lindsay could sense it as he was careful to resist the overwhelming temptation to say something – anything – to break the loaded silence.
'In a way these documents are a dile as to your bona fides – is that not so?' Jodl enquired eventually.
Lindsay shrugged, a gesture of complete indifference. 'That is for others to decide. I simply await my interview with the Fuhrer
'You may have to wait a long time, the German said sharply.
Lindsay's stomach revolved. God, something was wrong with the bloody documents. He wanted to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Again he resisted temptation since Jodl, he felt certain, was waiting for the slightest sign of nerves.
The pencil continued tapping its tattoo. Lindsay could have wrenched it out of Jodl's hands and snapped the thing in two. Instead, he leaned back further in his chair and clasped his hands lightly in his lap.
'You may have to wait a long time,' Jodl repeated. 'You see, I happen to know the Fuhrer has a list of appointments as long as your arm.'
Lindsay nodded, no particular expression showing in his reaction as he concealed the shock of relief. Jodl's manner, his choice of words, had convinced him he was about to be arrested and interrogated.
'Tunis,' Jodl said suddenly, still staring hard at Lindsay, 'tells me all the present data as to the Allied dispositions on the African front coincides with the documents you brought us..'
For the second time the Englishman forced himself to hide his relief. This really was a tricky bastard – he was convinced Jodl had been testing him. He watched while the German arranged the documents tidily, returned them to the thick envelope and pushed the package across the desk.
'Your passport to the Wolf's Lair. Guard them well.'
His expression was ironic and even when he left the but Lindsay was uncertain whether he had gained the man's confidence – or at least his neutrality. An enigmatic personality, Colonel-General Alfred Jodl.
He closed the door behind him and stopped. Dense fog was rolling into the compound, an icy fog which penetrated his greatcoat and reached for his bones. The leaden silence – no, it was the complete absence of sound – bothered him.
Then he realized it was not the atmosphere which had alerted him. A shoe or boot had squeaked nearby. Standing quite still in the grey blanket of vapour he knew he was not alone. A hand grasped his arm.
'Don't make a sound!'
It was the soft, sleepy voice of Christa Lundt – he had already guessed her identity from the smallness of the hand which gripped his arm.
'I want to talk to you,' she went on, 'but we must not be seen. You know you are being watched? Don't let's go into that now – just concentrate on not making a noise. We'll go to my quarters.'
Still holding on to him, she led the way across the compound. Lindsay was disturbed by the way she drifted through the fog like a wraith. Only a professional could move so silently. Who was Christa Lundt?'
'We're here. Wait while I open the door.
He listened and watched. Not a hint of a sound as she inserted a key inside the lock, turned and withdrew it. Recently she must have oiled the lock for it to operate so noiselessly. She gently pulled him inside the darkness of the interior and asked him to stay still.
Again the door was closed with great skill, the lock turned, a light switched on. They were standing in a narrow corridor. No carpet on the bare floorboards. She ushered him inside a room, switched on another light and went immediately to check the curtain drawn over the window.
'Coffee?'
'Maybe later, thank you.' He sat in an armchair she indicated with a graceful gesture. 'You said something about my being watched..'
'Martin Bormann. It would be, of course. He has allocated an SS man to follow you and report all your movements. I met the SS chap – who'd lost you.' She sounded amused as she sat close to him, crossed her shapely legs and used both hands to loosen her glossy hair. 'He was in a bit of a panic. I told him I was sure I'd seen you going to see Keitel. So now he's freezing outside our respected Field Marshal's hut. With a bit of luck he should be there all night…'
'Why would it be Bormann who set the dogs on me? "Of course", I think you said..
'Because he's suspicious of everyone.' She grinned. 'Sometimes I think he wonders about himself. He thinks you're a British spy – he's furious that the Fuhrer has agreed to see you.' She had gone to the kitchen area. She was boiling water for the coffee on a stove. As she spoke she glanced at Lindsay as though to assess his reaction. He turned the direction of the conversation away from himself.