The Leader And The Damned

'Be careful how you go. Two o'clock. And keep your door locked at all times.'

'Yes, Sergeant Mulligan…'

He closed the door on the outside and waited in the corridor. Only when he heard her lock it did he move quickly. Carrying his case he headed for the staircase and ran lightly up to the next floor. Room 24 was at the far end of a corridor which was deserted and smelt of floor polish.

In response to his knock the door was opened as though the occupant, Vlacek, had been waiting for him.

It was a peacetime scene. The morning sun a warm glow on the fertile green of the polo field. The only sounds the click of polo stick against ball, the gentle thump of horses' hooves.

Jock Carson was in the middle of a chukka when he saw Harrington on the edge of the field, waving a piece of paper to catch his attention. Gezira Sporting Club was on an island in the middle of the Nile, facing Cairo to which it was linked by bridges.

Carson waved his stick to warn the other players. He trotted the horse off the field, dismounted, produced a lump of sugar which his steed dutifully made disappear, then handed the animal over to a waiting Egyptian.

'Trouble?' he asked as he walked alongside Harrington towards the pavilion, reading the message.

'At last!' Harrington sounded excited. 'Signal from' Reader in Yugoslavia. Deal clinched. Three hundred sten guns with thirty mags apiece. In exchange we get Lindsay…'

'We have to get more weapons to Libya?'

'No! That's the marvellous thing. This bloody Heljec, or whatever his name is, started out wanting twenty-five pounders, a whole armoured division – you name it. Reader has bartered him down to what is already aboard the Dakota waiting at Benina! Fabulous chap!'

'I see the signal confirms a map-reference for a landing zone in Bosnia. For how long?' The turf was springy under their feet, the bedlam of Cairo's daytime existence a thousand miles away. 'We'll have to get moving.'

'I've got the jeep waiting. Bet I break my record back to Grey Pillars.'

Carson was mopping sweat from his brow and neck with the towel handed to him by the Egyptian steward. He frowned as he continued studying the signal.

'I've got the most horrible feeling about this business. Something's wrong. It's going to end badly, very badly…'

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The phone was ringing in Harrington's office when they arrived back. He flew in from the doorway, skidded across the highly-polished floor – as he'd done so often before – recovered his balance, laid one – hand on the desk and grabbed up the receiver with the other before it stopped ringing.

'Harrington…'

'This is Linda Climber. That is the American Embassy? Embassy is what I said. You want it a third time?'

'Harrington at your service, as always. A package has arrived for you from New Jersey.'

They had established positive identities. Sliding into his seat, Harrington gestured towards the extension phone with his other hand. Carson, who had closed the door, picked up the instrument.

'I can't be sure one way or the other – about our friend..' She sounded unhappy as she went on. 'He seems OK. Got a pencil and pad? Good. We're staying at the Hotel Sharon. Yes, together, so to speak. Phone number and extension…'

Harrington scribbled in the excruciating scrawl only he could decipher. 'Anything more about our friend?'

'He goes off on trips on his own. There could be someone else inside this hotel. He stumbled once. Said he was going out and I watched from an upper floor window overlooking the exit. He never appeared. After ten minutes he came back, said he'd left his wallet in another suit and maybe I would like to come with him for a morning stroll…'

'What time was that – the missing ten minutes?' 'Precisely ten o'clock to ten after ten…'

'His manner when he came back?' Harrington pressed.

'Normal.' A pause. 'Maybe a little more relaxed, a shade of relief. That's all. I'm phoning. from Mulligan's place. He's out at the moment.'

'Take care. Keep trying.'

'I intend to.'

They replaced the receivers at the same moment. Carson picked up an officer's stick and began walking round the room, tapping his teeth lightly with the end of the stick. He paused by the open window. Not even a shiver from the curtain this morning. An airless humidity like a smothering blanket had closed over the Grey Pillars complex.

'Warn the pilot at Benina to be ready for immediate take-off,' Carson said. 'Don't supply a map reference yet. It may be changed at the last minute. Talking about minutes – that missing ten minutes out of Standish's life keeps niggling at me …'

'What can you do in ten minutes?'

'Men have changed history in that time. I don't like any of this, you know.'

'Check urgently with London? Express your doubts.'

'And what will London reply?' Carson demanded savagely. 'Not urgently, for a start. Maybe in a fortnight – when they've cranked up their brain-boxes – a dismissive answer. Our courier has our full confidence. Wholly reliable…' He spoke the few words in a plummy voice. 'They like "wholly" – probably because it sounds like "holy"…'

'So, no signal to London?'

'We have to do it ourselves – as always.' Carson's pace became brisker. 'I'm leaving you in sole charge. Anything crops up, you decide. Right?'

'Of course. You're going somewhere?'

'First available plane to Lydda. Have transport standing by to rush me to Jerusalem. Pray God I spot the niggle which is driving me mad…'

With Stalin now placing full confidence in the information from Woodpecker and Lucy, by early winter '43 the Red Army had retaken Kiev. All along the front, at the price of enormous blood-letting, the Russians were advancing.

Snow had fallen on the forests smothering the Wolf's Lair. The branches of the trees were sagging, encased in ice. Frequently inside the dense forest a rifle shot would ring out. Crack! But it was not a rifle shot – it was the sound of a branch snapping off.

A lowering sky like a grey sea, heavy with snow, pressed down on the encampment. The atmosphere – as much as the news from the front – was affecting the occupants. Only the Fuhrer maintained an air of optimism.

In his Spartan quarters inside a wooden building – he disliked the bunker built for use in an air raid – he was striding back and forth as he lectured Bormann. He wore his usual dark trousers, his tunic with wide lapels, the three buttons fastened down the front, his sole decoration the Iron Cross attached to his breast.

'I need Wing Commander Lindsay brought back here urgently. We must negotiate an arrangement with England. I will guarantee the existence of the British Empire, an important – unique – stabilizing force in the world. If that is ever destroyed there will be chaos. Then we can devote our whole strength to eliminating the Soviets, as much England's enemy as ours. Where is Lindsay now? My lunch is getting cold…'

On the table, with a cover to keep it warm, was a bowl of vegetable gruel. Hitler ate sparingly, took little interest in his food. His sole weakness was apple cake which he indulged in at the Berghof.

'I'm worried that Lindsay may have detected your impersonation,' Bormann began tentatively. 'I have read his file. He was once a professional actor. Some of the visitors here look at you with puzzled expressions – Ribbentrop…'

'And who has said a word?' Hitler challenged him.'Even if they suspect anything how dare they voice their doubts? I am the keystone of the arch holding up the Third Reich. Without me they are nothing.

They know that…'

'Then there is Eva…`

'Eva!' The Fuhrer was amused but he spoke with mock ferocity. 'Eva and I get on fine! You keep your lecherous eyes off her or you'll hang from your ankles!'

'My Fuhrer! I did not mean…'

'I ask you again. Where is Lindsay?'

It was a typical tactic of the Fuhrer's – to divert someone from an awkward topic they had raised by introducing another subject which threw them off balance. Eva Braun had told him about this ploy.