The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Seventeen

It was a Monday in Salzburg when the Fuhrer's motorcade left the station in a series of cars and headed for the Berghof. The air was crisp and invigorating and no fresh snow had fallen.

On the same Monday in Munich the snow was falling, coating the huge twin domes of the Frauenkirche with a mantle of white. At eleven in the morning precisely a road-sweeper was trudging past the great church, dragging one leg as he pushed in front of him a metal trash-bin mounted on wheels.

The bin wobbled because the original rubber tyres had long ago worn threadbare and even ersatz rubber was at a premium in the blockaded Third Reich. Now it had to trundle over the uneven cobbles on the relics of rusty metal wheels.

As the clock struck eleven, the old road-sweeper paused to rest and the snow continued falling, soft flakes drifting down. Across the open space high up in an attic, the agent called Paco scanned the front of the Frauenkirche with a pair of binoculars.

For a few seconds the lenses focused on the road-sweeper and the hidden watcher was satisfied the apparently lame man was positioned perfectly. The lenses moved on, hovering systematically on the few people who hurried, heads down, past the Frauenkirche.

Paco was watching for any trace of suspicious activity – for any passer-by who could possibly be Gestapo. Men and women – they were all too old. Germany had become a place for the very old and very young. The cream of the nation's manhood was fighting on the Eastern front, in Africa – or stationed with the troops in the West.

Paco was also watching for a man who lit a cigarette with his left hand, took a few puffs, then stamped it under his left foot. By 11.10 it was clear this was the wrong Monday. Paco left the attic viewing platform. The road-sweeper resumed his trudging walk into a side street.

The trash-bin he pushed was half-full of rubbish. The smoke bombs and grenades were concealed under the layer of garbage.

It was Monday in London when Tim Whelby sat at a table in the foyer of the Regent Palace Hotel just off Piccadilly. He was hidden behind a copy of the Daily Mail which he held open at a double-page spread.

From where he sat he could see the revolving entrance doors – an ideal position to observe everyone who came inside. At nine o'clock at night the foyer milled with people at the reception counter.

Most of the men were in uniform, a mix of Allied troops including the ubiquitous Americans, many with English girl friends.

Outwardly relaxed, huddled in an old sports jacket, Whelby was feeling tense. His contact, Savitsky, was late. He checked his watch. In three minutes' time he would get up and leave. When he had phoned the usual number the Russian had sounded agitated, as though some urgent crisis had arisen, which was out of character.

At the nearby table, which was unoccupied, he had deliberately spread out his rumpled overcoat across a chair to discourage anyone from sitting down. As always, the rendezvous was different. They never met at the same place twice. Nor at the same time.

What made the Regent Palace ideal was the melee of visitors at this hour. And should someone he knew arrive and spot him, he was simply passing an idle half hour in the warmth. His eyes were on the entrance when a hand touched his overcoat, the voice apologetic.

'Is this table occupied?' Savitsky enquired.

'No. Excuse me..'

Whelby frowned irritably as he transferred the overcoat to the back of a chair at his own table. He settled down again to read his paper. At the next table Savitsky chose the chair closest to Whelby, unfolded a copy of the Evening Standard and, following the Englishman's example, opened it wide.

Where the hell had the Russian materialized from, Whelby wondered. He hoped he hadn't hidden himself in the lavatory cubicle. The police and hotel staff checked that area for undesirable activity. Savitsky appeared to read his mind.

'My apologies for being late. I was in the restaurant. I had to wait for ever for the bill…'

Whelby grunted without turning his head. Savitsky was no fool. He spoke English with an accent – but the hotel was full of Poles, French and even a few Dutch. No one was going to find anything odd in the Russian's speech.

'My people are very worried about your Englishman, the RAF Wing Commander. You have news?'

'Nothing more so far,' Whelby murmured, his lips hardly moving.

'We have had a signal – from the top – informing us this Lindsay has spent the last two weeks with the Fuhrer. He has just arrived at Berchtesgaden..'

Whelby turned to a fresh page, reached out a hand for his glass of beer and drained the contents. Savitsky had shaken him. How the devil could they know Lindsay was at the Berghof? He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and spoke from behind it.

'How does this concern me?'

'The geography intrigues us. The nearest friendly territory to Berchtesgaden is Switzerland. When he makes his run we believe he will head for Switzerland – then on to Spain. The Iberian peninsula is your responsibility..'

'You expect me to do what?'

'Make sure he never reaches England alive..'

Savitsky looked at his watch, stood up hastily as though realizing he was late, donned his own coat and walked rapidly away. Whelby watched him disappear through the revolving doors and checked his own watch. Three minutes' time lapse to let the Russian get well clear of the area and then he could leave himself.

Nothing in his smooth-skinned face or slow- moving eyes gave even a hint of the hammer-blow shock Whelby had received. This was way above anything he had bargained for. Make sure he never reaches England alive… '

Modern communications – and their interception – have changed the course of great wars. They have even dictated the ultimate outcome. The eventual success of the Ultra system, operated from a country house at Bletchley in England, allowed the Allies to eavesdrop on vital Nazi signals.

In the First World War, more than anyone else the code-breakers who cracked the Zimmermann telegram decided President Wilson to bring America into the war against Germany. Despatched from the Wilhelmstrasse, the German Foreign Office, to their ambassador in Mexico City, it proved Germany was planning to use Mexico as a hostile base against its great northern neighbour.

The most unusual factor influencing the victory of the Allies in World War Two was the Lucy Ring. The night before Amerika – the Fuhrer train – left the siding at the Wolf's Lair for Bavaria, a signal was despatched by Woodpecker from the hidden transmitter to Lucerne.

Couched in an unknown code, this was one of the signals which worried Roessler. He received the message as a series of incomprehensible dots and dashes.

'Another signal for Cossack in that funny code,' he told Anna. 'At least we are now passing them to the Bureau Ha. Is that a stew I can smell? I'm not too hungry..

'Kindly sit down at the table and eat what I have taken the trouble to prepare. If you had your own way you'd live off coffee and no sleep..

'I have re-transmitted the signal to Cossack.. 'I assume that! Now, sit down! Eat!'

The trouble started the following morning when the Swiss brigadier of Intelligence called personally. Even Anna was startled when she answered the persistent, ringing and found him on her doorstep.

'Please come in, Brigadier Masson,' she said, as though his visit was the most natural thing in the world. 'You got the latest signal?'

'Yes, Madame. Something is seriously wrong.. ' What is happening, Anna? Who is calling…? Roessler, stoop-shouldered from crouching over his transmitter – operating it, maintaining it for so many endless months – came into the living room and looped the handles of his glasses behind his large ears. He blinked in astonishment.

'Brigadier Masson..'

The Swiss Intelligence officer was a tall man in his forties. Instead of his normal uniform and peaked cap he wore his civilian clothes. Clean-shaven, solemn in expression, he stared hard at Roessler and then sat in the threadbare armchair Anna indicated.

'You received the latest signal? Your messenger collected it,' Roessler assured him.

'Your friend inside Germany has changed the code again,' Masson informed him. 'Our code-breakers cannot decipher it..'

'So you have told me before…` Roessler made a helpless movement. also have no idea of what those signals mean.

'I must know the identity of this contact at the top of the Nazi hierarchy. Now!'

Masson, normally the soul of courtesy, was cold and distant in voice and manner. Watching him, Anna had the impression he was labouring under great tension. She intervened, her tone sharp.

'After all we have done we cannot be bullied. Tell us what is worrying you or leave us in peace..'

Masson shrugged and reached for his hat. 'The identity of your friend in Germany,' he repeated. 'We sense danger..'

'Danger to whom?' Anna burst out. 'And Rudolf knows our informant only as The Woodpecker – Der Specht! I ask you once more – what is it about this latest signal which worries you?'

'Our code-breakers were not entirely unsuccessful,' Masson told her as he rose to leave. 'It makes a reference to Switzerland..'

At the beginning of April 1943 the whole world seemed to be waiting – waiting without knowing it. The war, involving millions of men, could still go either way. Victory was still within the grasp of the Third Reich. One massive blow against the Red Army could destroy Communism. Would the decisive attack be launched?

In London Tim Whelby, who so far had only dabbled his feet in treachery, was disturbed and irresolute. The instruction given by Savitsky confronted him for the first time with the prospect of personal violence. In short, murder. He waited for the next sign.

In Bavaria at the Berghof Martin Bormann waited – waited with the deepest anxiety to see whether his protege could successfully seal the success of the greatest impersonation in history. If he did, the Nazis would remain in power. If not, the generals would launch a military coup under the direction of General Beck.

At the Berghof another man waited – waited for the chance to get away. Ian Lindsay still felt handicapped by his relationship with Christa Lundt, still had not solved the problem of two people making an escape from the most heavily-guarded establishment in Nazi Germany.

And in the ancient city of Munich Colonel Browne's agent, Paco, also waited – waited for the next Monday. Would the Englishman reach the Bavarian capital in time to keep the agreed rendezvous? Every seven-day delay increased the danger. But patiently, Paco waited.

In Moscow the son of a Georgian cobbler also waited – waited as he tried to decide whether he could trust the reports from Woodpecker, whether he could take military action on the basis of the stream of signals which kept coming in via Lucerne.

'The arrival of the Englishman with Hitler at the Berghof is my greatest anxiety,' Stalin confided to Beria as the two men sat alone in his office inside the Kremlin. 'It is a pity the first attempt to kill him came to nothing..'

'I understood from earlier Woodpecker reports this Lindsay does not officially represent Churchill,' Beria responded cautiously.

Stalin stared at the secret police chief contemptuously, puffed at his pipe and then rested it inside an ashtray. He sat back in his chair and clasped both hands before speaking.

'If Hitler can find a way to bring the forty German divisions now guarding Western Europe to our front we are finished! You understand, Beria? Finished,' he repeated bitterly. 'And now I learn that Englishman is alive and well and has journeyed with Hitler to the Berghof. Quite obviously he has gained the Fuhrer's confidence. At this very moment he may be negotiating terms for a separate peace. Whatever happens he must be killed before he can return to England. Killed! I am handing over the responsibility for his fate to you..'

Stalin also was – waiting…