The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Nineteen

'We take that car! We leave within ten minutes..'

Inside the large anteroom Lindsay and Christa were in the middle of a ferocious argument. The Englishman made no reply to what she had just said as she fought to drive him into a decision. She had been alternately pleading and berating. Now she grasped both his lapels, stood up on her toes so their faces were level and tugged hard as she went on speaking.

'Listen to me! Did you see anyone while you were outside?'

'No

'Did you look to see if anyone was watching the car?'

'Yes, but..'

'No "buts", for God's sake! That file on me Gruber has sent to Berlin for will reach here any day now. Do you want me to end up in a concentration camp?'

Gently he took hold of both her wrists and released himself from her grasp. Still holding on, he pushed her into a chair, motioned to her to stay put.

'It's all too easy and convenient,' he said. 'No one about inside the place, no one outside..

'It's Sunday…!'

It was so bloody tempting, Lindsay thought. The timing was right. If they got away today, tomorrow was Monday – the day for contacting Paco. And with luck Christa – with her local knowledge – could get them through to Munich from Salzburg. He began thinking aloud.

'Having met Jaeger I have some idea of what makes him tick. If he were setting a trap he'd do it something like this..'

'He'd at least have parked the car where you could see it from the corridor window upstairs. You said you couldn't see it.

'I couldn't..'

'Well then!'

'If I were Jaeger,' Lindsay persisted, 'I wouldn't make it that obvious. And I wouldn't post watchers where they could be seen, I'd stay back and wait…'

'Wait! Wait! Wait! That's all you can think of!'

'I remember when I met Hitler before the war. We had a very long conversation. He told me that in any crisis he always waited until events developed, until something gave him a sign as to which was the direction he should move in. I'm a bit like Hitler.

'You lack his resolution,' she retorted bitterly.

'I've noticed there's a big laundry truck which arrives daily – to collect dirty linen and deliver fresh. The guards have become used to that truck. I've watched them from my corridor window. What I don't know is does it call on Sunday?'

'How should I know?' she asked sulkily. 'I'm kept occupied the other side of the Berghof. Why are you wasting time on this truck?'

'It arrives each day with commendable Teutonic promptness at the same time – exactly eleven o'clock in the morning.' Lindsay was walking slowly backwards and forwards while Christa fidgeted on the chair. 'There is only one man with that truck, no guards, just the driver, a short, fat man in overalls who heaves inside great bales of fresh laundry. Then he takes out the dirty stuff in white sacks, dumps them in the back, hauls down the door and drives off. There's the name of some firm in Salzburg on the side. Salzburg is where we want to go…'

'Where do we go from there?' she asked.

'Later..'

He was determined not to reveal their destination until the last minute. 'That laundry truck could be our transport to freedom,' he continued. 'When the door is up I can see inside from that window. There's a whole load of stuff that isn't unloaded here we could hide under. And my guess is the checkpoints are so used to the truck by now they won't search it, just so long as the alarm hasn't been raised here. Where are you supposed to be at eleven this morning? And while I remember it, have you any idea how long the truck should take to get back to Salzburg, assuming it has no more calls?'

`I have seen the truck leaving? Christa said thoughtfully. 'He drives like a maniac – in a hurry to get off duty, I suppose. My guess is he has to be in Salzburg one hour after leaving here. As to my whereabouts, I'm off duty today. Traudl is taking down the minutes at the midday conference..'

'So where would you normally be?'

'Reading, resting, doing washing and ironing in my room. No one comes near me.' She looked up, her expression more relaxed. 'You could be missed quickly.'

'It's the luck of the draw. Gruber grilled me yesterday – and went away disgusted. I could be left alone today. Sunday. They bring me breakfast at eight, collect the tray half an hour later – and lunch isn't until one-thirty..'

'So.. Christa was becoming absorbed in the details. 'The truck takes one hour, which means we reach Salzburg at midday. I looked up trains to both Vienna and Munich – since you're so cagey about our destination. I suppose you'll trust me one day…' A wistful – not resentful – note crept into her voice. Again Lindsay began to worry about her feelings towards him.

'I have people to protect,' he said shortly.

'I do understand. We reach Salzburg about midday. It's going to be a tight schedule, whichever way we go. There's an express to Vienna at 12.15, one to Munich at 12.30. If it is Munich we might just make it before they realize you are gone. The express arrives at 1.30 pm, the very moment they bring your lunch. Vienna is well over three hours..'

'We'll have to take our chances,' he said quietly. 'There are a lot of imponderables. Whether the truck goes anywhere near the station is just one of them..'

'And whether the laundry truck calls Sunday is another,' she reminded him. 'We meet here later?' 'Yes, as near to 10.45 as we can make it.'

'I still think we ought to grab that car.' She stood up and went to the window. 'We know that is available.'

He came up behind her and squeezed her arms reassuringly. 'The laundry truck it is. I've made up my mind.'

'All right.' She turned, looked up at him and produced a Luger 9-mm. pistol from her jacket pocket. 'I took this from a place where it won't be missed for days. I have a spare magazine. I'll give them to you just before we leave…' She hesitated.

'Christa, what is it?'

'Ian, I want you to promise me something. If we're on the verge of being captured, shoot me, please. Then maybe you'd better use the next bullet on yourself..' She turned away, her voice trembling. 'If we have to go… I'd like us to go together..'

He felt like hell. He couldn't think what to do, what to say. Just helpless. He reached out to. touch her as she remained with her back to him and then dropped his hands to his sides. Her feeling for him was worse than he'd thought. And he couldn't reciprocate the emotion.

'Let's see first whether that truck does call Sundays,' he said roughly and left the room.

'Move the bloody car back into the garage,' Colonel Jaeger rasped.

It was ten o'clock in the morning, heavy snow was falling and the far side of the valley and the mountains beyond were blotted out by the white pall. Jaeger, stiff with standing in one position for so long, so fixed had been his concentration watching the hairpin bend, was frustrated and in a rage.

'We could wait a little longer…' Schmidt began.

It was the wrong remark. Jaeger turned on his subordinate and exploded. 'Are you mentally unstable? A few hours ago you were criticizing me for not parking the bloody Mercedes on the front doorstep! Now you propose we hang about here for ever! The men outside from the motor battalion are freezing to death. Do as I damned well tell you..'

Schmidt hurried outside the barracks to issue orders to the troops who sat with their legs astride the motorcycles, banging their gloves together to bring the circulation back into frozen hands. When he had despatched a team he returned nervously to where the SS colonel was striding up and down, pausing to warm his hands at an old-fashioned log- stove.

'They are collecting the car,' he said breathlessly.

'Bormann will be delighted with the great success of the whole idea,' Jaeger commented savagely.

'It was his idea?' Schmidt queried as he used a silk handkerchief to clean his glasses. The lenses had steamed up with condensation during his brief excursion outside. The temperature was dropping rapidly.

'Now it hasn't worked, it will become my idea – I know Bormann. He always phrases his orders obliquely. And this one was not by order of the Fuhrer'

He broke off as he heard the sound of the Mercedes being driven back towards the garage. It was a tribute to the car that the bloody motor had started up after standing outside for hours in these conditions.

'Those men were supposed to push the machine back,' he blazed.

'I'll reprimand the sergeant…'

'Oh, don't bother! What does it matter. The whole operation is a farce. I'm going to get something to eat.'

'Colonel,' Schmidt began tactfully, 'the three checkpoints are still on full alert. Shall I phone them orders to stand down?'

At the doorway to the barracks canteen Jaeger paused while he considered the suggestion. Snow flakes were beginning to adhere to the outside of the windows, masking the view. It was going to be a raw outlook.

'Good idea,' he said. 'Men kept on alert pointlessly lose their edge. Tell them to relax. And then come and join me for breakfast. I need someone to talk to – so I can contradict them!' He sighed. 'Sunday! I always hated Sunday – ever since I was a little boy…'

Lindsay heard the faint sound of a car engine being started up. He heard the sound because he had left the door of his room slightly ajar after the orderly collected his breakfast tray.

By leaving the door open he would be warned if a guard was posted outside. So far none had appeared. He had no way of knowing that, apart from withdrawing the normal guards to entice him into the trap, Jaeger had sent a large contingent away from the Berghof to reinforce the checkpoints and provide a reserve group of shock troops at a camp close to Salzburg.

Lindsay checked his watch yet again. Exactly 10 am. Another three-quarters of an hour before he joined Christa in the anteroom. He opened the door wider and peered out into a deserted corridor. Walking swiftly and silently he reached the window and looked down. The Mercedes had driven forward into view.

The vehicle was now halted with the engine warming up. Two SS men were scraping ice from the windscreen, pausing to melt a fresh area by pressing their gloves over the glass. The unseen driver turned on the wipers which operated jerkily and then settled down into a regular rhythm.

Lindsay stayed well back behind a curtain as he watched the two SS soldiers climb into the back. The car was driven in a sweeping semi-circle and headed out of sight in the direction -of the barracks. Lindsay continued to wait but there was no sign of further activity.

At 10.30 he checked the corridor, staircase and entrance hall. When he found they were deserted he slipped down with his case and went inside' the anteroom. Christa was pacing restlessly, trying to stifle a sensation of growing panic.

Lindsay watched her while he hid his case behind a huge chest of drawers standing clear of the wall. He would have been much better on his own he thought – but he couldn't leave her now. Advice he had been given by Colonel Browne in Ryder Street kept coming back.

'If you're on the run don't be tempted to link up with anyone – it multiplies the risk of, capture tenfold. Statistics show..'

Bugger statistics. He had to get Christa across the border into Switzerland. There he could leave her with a clear conscience – to sit out the rest of the war. She was German-speaking, so she could merge with the population.

'The car is gone. They've taken it away,' Christa remarked and her tone was edgy. 'I suppose you'll say that proves it was a trap they set for us..'

'I really don't know. Maybe someone was going to use it and the weather changed their mind..' 'You're just saying that to pander to me..'

He took three long strides across the room and grasped her with both hands. His voice was low and brutal, his eyes hard.

'Now listen! In less than thirty minutes we're walking out of that door – if the laundry truck ever turns up. We have to dodge the driver, hide ourselves in the back of the truck and from that moment there's no turning back..'

He let go with his right hand, reached down and pulled up the leg of his trouser, exposing the knife he had stolen from the galley on board the Fuhrer train.

'I may have to kill the driver,' he went on. 'At some stage the killing will start. So, my girl, unless you get a grip on yourself damned quick you'll be a liability.'

'I was all right at Salzburg when we got off the train,' she said quietly. 'It was just bad luck that Hartmann intervened and stopped us. I'll be all right again – once we're on the move. Ian, I won't let you down. It's the waiting which twists me into knots..'

'Join the club.'

He released her and regretted his outburst. She was, of course, right. On previous form she could be relied on. You should always go on previous form, not what people say.

'Are you staying here with me?' she asked. 'Yes.'

'You don't have to. I can wait it out on my own. If someone checks your room it would be safer for you if you were up there – if they search me I'm carrying the Luger…'

'Either way it's a risk,' he told her in a businesslike tone as though she were the last consideration. 'I've managed to get down here unseen. My door is closed. If they post a guard they'll just assume I'm inside. They always have done. But if I'm inside, then I have to get past him to get down here again. There's no ideal formula for this kind of situation.' He smiled. 'So just keep on pacing…'

At 10.45 he asked her to give him the Luger and spare magazine. He shoved the pistol under his jacket and inside his belt. They went on waiting and neither of them seemed to be able to think of anything to say.

It was debatable which of them checked their watches more regularly. The minutes crawled. 10.50. Outside it was still snowing but less heavily. Lindsay prayed it would keep on falling. Bad weather – plus the fact it was Sunday – were the two factors which might keep everyone indoors long enough. They both checked their watches at the same moment. Their eyes met. 10.59.

Time is relative the man said, whatever that might mean – whoever the man was – but one thing is certain. Sixty seconds never took longer to tick past.

Neither moved. Both stood well clear of the window overlooking the entrance. 11.00 am…

Lindsay had his head cocked to one side, listening for the first sound of the laundry truck's motor. A leaden silence. Outside the snow was falling more thickly, heavy flakes drifting down, spinning slowly in tiny somersaults. 11.01.

'It isn't coming.. Christa began.

Lindsay shushed her with a shake of his head, listening intently. Christa couldn't keep still. She clenched and unclenched her small hands. The Englishman remained quite motionless, his mouth tight as he concentrated. Waiting it out. Pure hell. A nerve-drainer.

He raised one hand to keep her quiet, held it in mid-air. The distant sound of an engine approaching fast. 'He drives like a maniac,' Christa had said. Something like that. He motioned her to keep still and moved to the window, sidling close to a curtain edge.

A shape loomed through the snow, burst through the pallid veil, swung in a wild skid through a hundred and eighty degrees so the bonnet faced the way back to Salzburg. He was staring straight at the back of the closed vehicle with a roll-top shutter door. The laundry did call Sundays.

Through an inch-gap in the slightly-opened anteroom door Lindsay looked into the entrance hall. The driver wore a white coat and trousers – overalls – and a peaked cap. He had opened one of the double doors and staggered inside carrying a huge white sack over his shoulder. He disappeared through a doorway on the far side of the hall.

'The truck door's wide open,' called out Christa who was watching from the window.

' Then we move! '

They were both holding their cases. Lindsay opened the door wide and shoved Christa through first. He was careful to dose the anteroom door behind him. Christa had already vanished outside. There was no way of knowing how quickly the driver would reappear. Lindsay ran light-footed across the marble floor disfigured with snow patches from the driver's boots and followed Christa.

It was less cold than he had expected, the snow was thinning, the flakes smaller, fewer. She had followed his instructions – he could just see the indentations where, walking on her toes, she had dug into the snow. Moving on his heels, he took great strides. There must be no traces of footprints prominent enough for the driver to see.

He hauled himself up inside the truck and her voice called softly. 'Back here…' She had scrambled over piles of linen sacks to the very back of the truck, just behind the driver's cab. He couldn't see her in the semi-dark and that encouraged him. With luck they would remain undiscovered by the driver, unless he searched for a sack close to the cab.

Lindsay buried himself under the pile and she snuggled close to him. He was lying on his case but movement now would be dangerous. Reaching under his jacket, he pulled out the Luger. Her lips spoke direct into his right ear.

'Why the gun? You're not going to shoot him.. 'Only if he finds us. Then I grab the driving wheel and we take off.

'Let's hope not..'

She subsided. Let's hope not. Christ! Shooting the driver at this stage would be the last resort. Later, Lindsay would have no compunction, but parked outside the Berghof there were so many hazards.

Someone might hear the shot. The body would have to be concealed. How would they get through the checkpoints with Lindsay at the wheel? He felt Christa stiffen. The driver was returning for a fresh load. They heard him bang his boots against the outside to kick off snow. Submerged under the linen piles they heard him rummaging about and it seemed he was very close. Lindsay hoped to God that – if it came to it – he could eliminate the man with a blow from the barrel rather than firing the weapon.

Clump! He had dropped to the ground with further supplies. They heard the crunch of his heavy-footed tread on the snow. With luck any traces their own feet had left in the snow would be gone. But Lindsay's nerves were tingling. The delivery seemed to be taking forever. And every second they lingered at this point increased the danger of someone noticing he was missing.

Three more times the driver made trips inside the Berghof. Now each time he returned he brought back sacks of dirty linen which he tossed carelessly towards the back. On the third occasion Lindsay saw something which made him freeze.

The driver was approaching the truck. Through a gap between the sacks Lindsay saw exposed – in full view – the forefoot of Christa's left boot. A sack which had previously covered her foot had slithered away. To miss seeing that boot the driver would have to be blind. The crisis had arrived. He took a firm grip on the butt of the Luger.

'God in heaven! This bleedin' weather..'

The driver was talking to himself as he scrambled aboard. A man of method, he climbed aboard to ensure the dirty linen was stored at the very back of the truck. Standing upright he peered towards the back, holding the new sack of dirty linen while he recovered his breath.

'Finished, Hans? This weather suit your driving? You bastard, you should be restricted to the autobahn..'

Belatedly, an SS guard had appeared and was joshing the driver who stood still holding the sack. He glanced back over his shoulder and shouted at the guard.

'Gunther, you can piss down your trouser leg. I'll be back in Salzburg before noon. Care to join me in the cab?'

'In this weather! You're a bloody lunatic! The checkpoints should slow you down – if you haven't turned the truck over…'

Lindsay held his breath. Christa's boot was still sticking out. He dared not mention it to her. And when the driver spotted it he'd call to the guard…

The sack of dirty linen sailed through the air and landed on her foot, completely concealing it. Clump! the driver had jumped to the ground. There was a grinding rattle. Darkness. He had shut the door.

Crouched over his wheel inside the cab Hans switched on – the fog-lamps, the motor. Gear in, brake released. He was away. He rammed his foot on the accelerator. The truck took off down the winding slope.

Under the sack pile Christa grabbed hold of Lindsay and held on as the vehicle began to sway from side to side. The vehicle picked up more speed. The sacks cushioned them from the buffeting but under them they could feel the wheels sliding. Lindsay guessed they were approaching the hairpin bend. He waited for Hans to reduce speed.

Hans accelerated. He had wiped a peep-hole in the windscreen but it was still partially misted over. The eery yellow beams of the fog-lamps showed the hairpin coming up. He kept his foot well down.

Lindsay held Christa tightly. He felt the rear wheels swinging out of control. Hans let the truck go with the skid. No braking. He held the wheel steady, went with the skid until the vehicle was moving slowly, then gently applied the accelerator. He had navigated the hairpin. He pressed his foot down and headed for the first checkpoint.

In the back of the truck Christa clung to Lindsay. There was sweat on the Englishman's forehead. She let out her breath in a deep sigh.

'He's going to kill us,' she said.

'Rear wheel skid,' said Lindsay in a clipped tone. 'He coped with it perfectly. I'll tell you now where we're heading for – Munich.'

'That's the second express then – the one that departs at 12.30 from Salzburg. If we make it we reach Munich at 1.30 – which is when they'll be bringing your lunch to your room at the Berghof. The alarm will be raised almost at the precise moment we get to Munich. Bormann will react fast – he'll put out an alert for us all over Bavaria.'

'Let's get to Salzburg first,' Lindsay suggested. 'And we'll have about a twenty-four-hour wait in Munich before I can meet our contact. Where the hell we'll hole up I don't know…'

'I do! Kurt had a small attic hideaway which should still be available..'

'Whereabouts in Munich?' he asked casually. 'Near the Fedhermhalle or the Frauenkirche?'

'Very close to the Frauenkirche. It's in a small alley. It's not much of a place but his aunt hates the Nazis They put her husband in a labour battalion. It's one reason why Kurt chose the place…' She broke off. 'We're stopping. Christ! This is the first checkpoint.'

Inside his cab Hans swore when he saw the barrier like a frontier pole was barring his way at the checkpoint. Bloody fools! Had they nothing better to do in this weather. And there seemed to be more guards about than usual.

He braked but kept the motor running as a strong hint. With a sense of relief he recognized the SS officer approaching as he lowered his window. Hans never alighted from his cab – not for any time-serving bloody soldier!

`You are trying to break a record, Hans?' the thin-faced SS man enquired. 'We saw you coming down the mountain – you're going to end up breaking your neck.'

'I'm late for my meal. What's all the fuss? Why the circus?'

'We are searching all vehicles. An exercise. Orders from the Berghof last night..'

'Well get on with it – and then lift that ruddy pole!'

'Always so polite, Hans!'

Every word of the conversation could be clearly heard inside the truck. Lindsay gripped the butt of the Luger again. They had to be discovered if the truck was searched. Could he cold-bloodedly press the muzzle of the Luger against Christa's temple and pull the trigger? He had never killed a woman before…'

A grinding rattle as someone raised the rear door. The temperature dropped even lower as air flooded inside. Christa grasped his gun-hand carefully, lifted it slowly and placed the tip of the muzzle against the side of her head. He didn't take the first pressure on the trigger. Would they use bayonets to prod the sack pile?

A scraping noise – followed by an intake of breath. Someone had clambered up inside the truck. Lindsay felt moisture on the palm of the hand holding the pistol. Christa lay quite inert. What the hell must her thoughts be at this moment? Lindsay had never felt so helpless, a sensation he detested.

A clump of jackboots moving closer. Outside the sound of several voices. He could feel the tension inside Christa's body. The poor kid was petrified with terror. Sounds followed each other in rapid succession. The groaning rumbling of a half-track vehicle nearby. The now familiar rattle of the doom at the back being closed. 'Piss off, Hans, and get your lunch…' Gear change. Brake release. The truck was moving…

'Hans!' A bellowing shout. 'Drive straight through the next two checkpoints.' They were on their way.