'So! You suggest we send this Hartmann back as soon as he arrives? You further suggest I turn the Englishman, Lindsay, over to the Gestapo? I cancel two major decisions the Fuhrer took within hours of my landing – thus creating a hotbed of gossip and rumour just when we are fighting to make everything appear normal?'
Bormann was appalled and amazed. Appalled at his own lack of foresight. Amazed at Heinz Kuby's reaction – which would have been the same mental process followed by the Fuhrer who had recently died during the explosion of the plane from Smolensk. Kuby continued pacing as he built up his monologue.
'We shall do the exact opposite of what you suggest. Lindsay is to remain here – treated with all due consideration – until I am ready to interview him. Before that – possibly tomorrow afternoon when I have taken my nap – I want to see Hartmann. Meantime, he is to continue his investigation..'
'The Fuhrer armed him with a document which confers plenipotentiary powers. He can question any one – even men like Jodl…'
'Better and better! I must urge him to pursue his interrogations at length and with the utmost vigour! Don't you see, Bormann, this is a further distraction which will keep people occupied until they accept me for ever! No more argument! I have spoken. By order of the Fuhrer!'
'I will see to it at once..'
'If he has plenipotentiary powers, Bormann…' A half-smile on Hitler's face held a touch of malice as he glanced at the small, plump man – an expression which further startled Bormann since it was so characteristic of the Fuhrer in a certain mood when no one was safe from his victims. '… then,' Hitler continued, 'Hartmann can, if he is so minded, question you.'
'As the repository of your secrets, that I would resist..'
'The document specifically excludes you then from this security investigation?'
'Well, no..'
'Let us hope he does not end up by arresting you!'
Bormann subsided, stupefied by the way Hitler was exploiting all possible circumstances to mask his own impersonation.
Chapter Thirteen
Locate the secret headquarters of the Fuhrer..
Identify who is directing the German military machine…'
This was the scenario Lindsay had been given before he left the haven of Ryder Street, London, by Colonel Browne of the SIS. Lindsay found himself using the word scenario in his thinking because the whole atmosphere at the Wolf's Lair was so theatrical – all the chief characters seemed to be playing a part.
A fortnight after his arrival he had positive answers to the two questions London was so anxious to know. The Wolf's Lair was hidden in the horrific pine-woods of East Prussia where the mist never seemed to lift, turning day into night.
From his conversations with Guensche, the Fuhrer's Adjutant; the mysterious Christa Lundt; from remarks dropped by Martin Bormann and his own observations of the submissive attitudes of Keitel and Jodl – from all these indications the Englishman now knew Hitler himself personally took every major decision.
'When you have obtained this information,' Browne had informed him blandly, 'you make your way to Munich and contact our agent. You go to the front of the Frauenkirche at exactly eleven o'clock in the morning on a Monday. You light a cigarette and put it in your mouth with your left hand. After a few puffs you throw it away and crush out the stub with your left foot. The agent will introduce his presence – or her presence – by telling you his name, Paco. You reply, "When in Rome". You will then be under the control of Paco who will pass you across the Swiss border..'
'And supposing I have been taken there by the Gestapo?' Lindsay had queried.
Browne had fiddled with objects on his desk before replying. It was a contingency he had not overlooked, but Browne preferred to wrap up unpleasant topics in oblique language. He had never been in the field.
'That possibility has been catered for,' he said, not looking at Lindsay. Browne was conscious of the fact that, however long the war lasted, he, personally, would never be sent 'over the top' – would never be dropped behind enemy lines and maybe end his life tortured to extinction slowly in some filthy Gestapo cell; which was the prospect facing the man who sat opposite him. He cleared his throat and continued.
'If it came to that – and you have revealed the existence of our agent, Paco – they might take you to the Frauenkirche to keep the rendezvous. You would simply light the cigarette with your right hand. After all, you are right-handed. You take a few puffs and then crush it under your right foot. The use of the wrong hand and foot will alert Paco. Our agent would remain under cover…'
'Rather clever.' Lindsay automatically reached for a cigarette and inserted it in his mouth with his right hand. Suddenly conscious of his action he paused in the act of lighting up and looked at Browne. The Colonel was staring at the cigarette as though hypnotized.
'Paco,' Lindsay went on, lighting the cigarette, 'is a man – or a woman?'
'Better you do not have that information,' Browne said tersely.
Lying sprawled on his bunk inside the but allocated to him at the Wolf's Lair, Lindsay recalled with great clarity Browne's petrified expression over the cigarette incident.
God, how straightforward it had all seemed in the cosy environs of Ryder Street! Lindsay would fly – as he had done – to the area of the Berghof and make his parachute drop. With skill and luck he would obtain the information needed at the very top – Downing Street, he suspected – and make his escape to Munich.
He had spent hours studying the rail maps and street plans prior to his departure. There was a direct main-line rail route from Salzburg – close to Berchtesgaden – to Munich, which, in normal times took something over an hour. He carried the whole street plan of Munich in his head. Arriving in Munich he would keep the rendezvous with Paco at the earliest possible moment. Then via the underground to
Switzerland…
Now he was over six hundred miles north-east of Munich – lost in the bleak wastelands of East Prussia. How the hell he was going to reach Munich, Paco, Switzerland, he had no idea. And in a few hours – after a fourteen day nerve-racking wait – he was supposed to meet the Fuhrer. He was still remembering Ryder Street when the door was opened quietly, Christa Lundt slipped inside, closed the door and leaned against it, her well-shaped breasts heaving.
'What's wrong now?'
He was away from the bunk in seconds, watching her closely as he walked towards her. Christa's face was bloodless, but when she spoke her voice was low and controlled.
'Why do you say now – as though I'm neurotic?' 'Get to the point..'
'As if you – we – hadn't enough trouble with that Abwehr man, Hartmann, sniffing all over the place and asking endless questions. He's been here two weeks, you know..'
'Get to the point,' he repeated.
'The Gestapo have arrived. They're enquiring about you..'
All thoughts of Ryder Street were wiped from his mind.
In wartime the turn of great events often hinges on the most minor of incidents. The same night Colonel Browne came within an ace of being killed.
It was nine o'clock at night. Still March, but only just. Browne was returning to his Ryder Street office and to reach his destination he had to cross Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare. He had had a tricky time making his way down Dover Street. A heavy mist had drifted up from the river – almost a fog.
He could see his hand in front of his face – but it was a blurred hand. Moisture settled on his skin and the dank atmosphere chilled. There seemed to be no one else about. It was very silent – the dense grey vapour muffled all sound. Browne plodded on, feeling his way. It was too damnably easy to drift off the pavement and find yourself in the middle of the road without knowing it.