The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was crisis Monday – the day of the rendezvous with Paco. The previous night Christa and Lindsay had slept inside the sleeping-bags in the attic, to protect Helga in case the SS arrived.

'It's a grey day – come and look,' said Christa.

She had pulled aside the curtain masking the tiny dormer window perched high on the top of the building. Lindsay joined her and peered out. Above nearby rooftops loomed two giant domes – once copper-coloured and now green with verdigris. Christa pointed to them.

'That's the Frauenkirche.'

'Close enough. According to the map I studied in London there's a large open space in front. At eleven o'clock will there be many people about?'

'Housewives going from shop to shop trying to find some place which has just had a delivery. Everything is whipped the moment it arrives. Do we walk together this time? You'll be in civilian clothes..'

'Yes.'

It wasn't the perfect arrangement – there would probably be patrols out looking for a man and a girl but he sensed her need for reassurance of his presence. Also he had no idea how Paco planned to get them away. If a vehicle was involved they wouldn't want to waste a second getting inside it.

By 10.30 am they had eaten the meagre breakfast Helga supplied, but she had generously reinforced it with two large cups of the Lyons coffee Sergeant Berg had given her.

'You're not wasting any time,' Lindsay observed.

Up early, Helga had spread the SS uniform out on another table and, using a pair of pinking shears, had cut it into small pieces ready for burning. She had removed the metal buttons and stored them in a small bag.

'They go down a drain three kilometres from here,' she remarked.

An old wooden chair stood near the stove with a large axe on the seat. Helga gestured towards it. 'I break that up – the wood will help to burn the cloth. The tray of cold ashes goes into another bag and will be dumped in a litter bin – again a good distance from my apartment.'

She provided Lindsay with a selection of shabby trousers, coats and jackets and he tried them on quickly. The trousers fitted him well but the jackets were tight and a little short in the sleeves.

'It doesn't matter,' Helga commented. 'In Germany today we wear anything we can lay our hands on. Your problem will be your face.'

'My face?'

'Too young – the face of a possible deserter.' She fetched the stick she had used to fool Berg. 'Take this and limp – you've been badly wounded, unfit for further service, discharged from the Army. I suppose it's the same in England – the streets crawling with cripples…'

Lindsay was careful not to disillusion her. Unlike the Wehrmacht, the British had not been minced up in the barbaric Soviet grinding machine, had not fought Cossacks who, when German troops raised their hands in surrender, rode down the line slicing off the hands at the wrists with their swords.

He checked himself in a mirror and was amazed at the transformation. His blond hair helped – it gave him a Teutonic look. He shoved his Luger down inside his belt, left the jacket loose for ease of access and fastened only one button of the overcoat.

'These were Kurt's things?' he asked quietly.

'Yes. Berg knew he was here but said what the hell – the war was crazy anyway. Would the average Englishman hate the average German if he met him? Or the other way round?' She drew herself up erect. 'You're English – do you hate me?'

'For God's sake, after what you've done..'

'You'd better go or you'll be late for your appointment,' she said severely, cutting off the Englishman in mid-sentence.

Christa hugged Helga and, picking up her suitcase, ran out of the apartment, her eyes brimming. Lindsay picked up his own case, looked at Helga who had picked up the axe and waved it to get him moving. He heard her lock the apartment door as he fumbled his way down the beastly staircase.

'… you'll be late for your appointment.'

The old woman was clever. She'd dismissed them as though they were on their way to attend some business meeting, knowing the tension they must be experiencing as they made their way to their uncertain rendezvous.

High up in the attic overlooking the Frauenkirche, Paco focused the lenses of the field-glasses and slowly scanned the Neuhauser-Kaufigerstrasse, lingering on the open space in front of the great church. A road- sweeper stood near the entrance, wielding his bristle-broom which was almost worn down to the handle. Nearby stood his innocent-looking wheeled trash-bin. As he cleaned the pavement he dragged his left leg.

Paco checked the time. 10.55. If the English agent was coming he had to appear within the next five minutes. So far there was no suspicious activity in the area – only a handful of housewives wearily trudging past on their way to the next stop. Some of them would have been up at six o'clock to make an early start.

Paco climbed down the winding staircase from the observation point and hurried to the ground floor. Dressed in an Astrakhan coat with a matching Russian-style hat pulled well down over the ears, Paco was a sturdily built figure who gave an impression of some wealth.

From a secret cupboard on the ground floor the agent collected a violin case. Inside it was a Schmeisser machine-pistol, fully loaded.

Christa led the way through a maze of cobbled alleys. Looking up, Lindsay caught the occasional glimpse of the twin green domes. It told him how close they were to their destination. How the hell was Paco going to get them away safely? The problem had irked him for some time.

'Stop! Get into a doorway!'

Inside yet another slit-like alley Christa called out the warning and pressed herself into the alcove of a doorway. Lindsay obeyed, the case in his left hand. His right hand slipped under his jacket and gripped the butt of the Luger. He peered along the alley to the street at the end.

A camouflaged military truck, moving very slowly, slid across the gap at the alley's end. He even saw rifles projecting from the open rear, presumably held by troops sitting inside the vehicle. He checked his watch. 10.58! God, they were going to be late. Would Paco wait – or even turn up at all?

'All right now,' Christa called out.

'How did you know?' he asked as he caught up with her.

'You learn to recognize the sound of an Army truck – I just hope they're not deploying in front of the Frauenkirche.'

'There must be a lot of military stuff moving through here all the time,' he said confidently. 'How close are we?'

'Across that street, down the alley opposite – and then we've arrived.'

'So now I take the lead. If there's trouble – if only one of us can get away with Paco – you're elected.. 'No, I couldn't leave you..

'Don't give me trouble now, you bloody fool!'

He left her behind, but not before he saw the stricken look on her face at the way he had reacted. He had never spoken to her like that before. He emerged from the alley, glancing both ways. A queue of people formed a long crocodile outside a shop. Others hurried to join it. No police. No troops. He crossed the street and entered the alley. Behind him the click-clack of Christa's shoes hurried to catch up. He paused inside the alley and turned. He hugged her briefly, still holding his case.

'I'm sorry,' he said quickly, 'but someone has to get to London with the information. It's vital.'

'I do understand, Ian.'

Her face flooded with relief. She smiled bravely. He kissed her briefly. She bit her lips to hold back the tears.

'I won't be a burden, I promise…'

'A burden! Good God, I'd never have got this far without you. Now, come on, we have to get moving. What's that bell striking?'

'Eleven o'clock. The Frauenkirche is at the end of this alley.'

A turmoil of emotion. Nerves tautened with stark fear. It was inevitable, Lindsay thought as he walked rapidly down the shadowed alley with Christa at his heels. If only the girl hadn't fallen in love with him.

They were out in the open. It was a visual shock. After scuttling like rabbits through a series of warrens, the wide open spaces were frightening. You felt so exposed. Lindsay paused, Christa beside him, to survey the view.

The vast edifice of the Frauenkirche towered above them to the right. A Volkswagen with an ugly contraption mounted on its body – a device for storing synthetic fuel – drove slowly past, its motor sputtering. In the distance a uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door of a green Mercedes while a booted figure wearing an Astrakhan coat and hat climbed inside.

Nearer to the Frauenkirche a large delivery van stood parked by the kerb while the driver buried his head under the bonnet. It was getting so that nothing worked for long. Most skilled mechanics were at the front. A road-sweeper nearby brushed the flagstones with a bristle broom, dragging one leg. Lindsay walked in front of the Frauenkirche, placed a half-smoked cigarette in his mouth with his left hand, lit it, smoked a few puffs and stubbed it beneath his left foot.

The sky was heavily overcast. A sea of grey clouds pressed down on Munich. The atmosphere was turgid, plucked at the nerves. A gentle, chilling drizzle began to fall, casting a misty veil over the city. Lindsay wondered how long he should stay there, conspicuous by his lack of movement.

The green Mercedes was moving now, heading towards them at speed. Lindsay watched it approach – it seemed unlikely…

'Papers! Your papers!'

'Look out, Ian…!' There was desperation in Christa's urgent cry. ' Behind you! '

The bastards had hidden inside the church. Two SS men. One, a tall individual confidently extending his hand for the demanded papers. The second, shorter and plump, cradled a machine-pistol under his arm.

Lindsay spun round, had a snapshot vision of the two men, then his attention was caught by movement beyond the Frauenkirche. The driver had lifted his head from underneath the bonnet of the delivery van and men in grey uniform carrying rifles were jumping out of the back.

Which way to go?

There was a skidding scream of tyres, a grinding jamming of car brakes. The green Mercedes slid to the edge of the kerb close to them. The figure in the back had thrown open the rear door.

The road-sweeper had lost his limp, had dropped his broom, was rummaging inside the wheeled trash- bin. He jerked erect holding something in either hand. Lindsay recognized the stick-grenades he was gripping. They sailed through the air, landed in front of the grey-clad soldiers from the delivery van. They detonated with dull thumps.

The soldiers performed weird acrobatic motions, jumping upwards like marionettes on strings, hurling their rifles away, toppling backwards. The road-sweeper had hurled his third missile. It landed close to the same spot and a balloon of dark vapour spread and blotted out van and stricken soldiers Smoke bomb…

A hand reached out from the rear of the Mercedes and gripped his wrist. A voice called out the order. In English.

'Get inside, you fool! You want to get us all killed…'

'The girl first…'

Lindsay turned to grab Christa, to throw her if necessary head first inside the back of the car. She wasn't within grabbing distance. A horrific sight met his eyes. He yelled like a crazed animal.

He had dropped the suitcase. The Astrakhan-clad figure who had given him the abrupt order still clung to his left hand with an iron grasp. With his right hand he hauled out the Luger and aimed it. He was beside himself with terror.

The SS man – the short, fat-bellied swine with the machine-pistol – was pointing the muzzle at Lindsay to cut him down. But Christa was standing in the way – deliberately Masking his line of fire. 'Oh God, oh God, oh dear God…!'

The SS man pressed the trigger, emptied half the magazine into her. She slumped forward, both hands holding her stomach. The blood was drenching the pavement. Above her drooping body the fat SS man appeared. He raised the muzzle of his weapon. Lindsay shot him twice in the face, his aim true, his hand steady as a rock.

He fired a third time but the hand gripping his other wrist had jerked him at the same moment and the shot went wide. It made no difference. The SS man had fallen alongside his victim.

'If you don't get into this car I'll shoot you myself,' the voice in English snapped. 'She's dead – can't you see that…'

He climbed inside the car, slamming the door shut, aware now that other things had been happening. The road-sweeper had grabbed his case, dived into the front passenger seat and shut the door. The car took off.

Lindsay twisted round and stared through the rear window. He had only one last glimpse. Christa's shattered body lying crumpled on the pavement. He hoped she had died immediately. Her slim legs were sprawled at a strange angle.

'She saved my life,' he said.

No one seemed interested. The powerful engine of the Mercedes carried them through the streets of Munich at manic speed. The Astrakhan-clad figure by his side had a machine-pistol in its lap, an open violin case on the floor which presumably had concealed the weapon.

Lindsay felt he no longer cared whether they got away or not. He couldn't stop thinking of Christa acting as a human shield to save him. Minutes earlier he had called her a bloody fool. The car slowed down as it entered a deserted street and then swung left into a cul-de-sac.

A hand closed over his own. He looked down and realized he was still clutching the Luger. He'd forgotten all about the blasted thing – the gun Christa had provided. His companion's tone of voice was critical.

'The safety catch is still off…'

'All right! All right!'

He put the safety on and stared ahead. They were nearly at the end of the cul-de-sac. Now he saw a garage was open. The car slid inside, stopped. The chauffeur jumped out, closed the doors. Nobody said anything as he climbed out on to a concrete floor and an overhead light came on. A stench of petrol.

The figure in the Astrakhan coat and hat walked round the car and stared at Lindsay. The same height as the Englishman, the wearer's voice was abrupt when it asked the question.

'The mission was to collect you. Who was the girl?' 'A German secretary of Hitler's. Without her help

I would not have been there for you to collect.' ' C'est la guerre

…

The figure removed the Astrakhan hat, revealing thick blonde hair, a well-shaped nose and chin – strong bone structure – and greenish tinted eyes. Lindsay was staring at a girl. She would be about twenty-seven, held herself very erect and was extremely attractive.

'I'm Paco,' she said. 'Now all we have to do is get you back to the Allied lines. Simple? Yes? No?'