The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Bureau Ha, the section of Swiss Intelligence which dealt with Lucy, was based in the Villa Stutz, eight and a half kilometres from the suburb where the Roesslers had their apartment.

This three-storey, stucco-faced building was tucked well out of the way in a discreet location on a lonely cape projecting into Lake Lucerne. From the outside it had the appearance of being the residence of a wealthy Swiss. No uniformed soldiers were ever seen in the vicinity; its wrought-iron double gates were guarded by men in civilian clothes.

It was to the Villa Stutz that Roger Masson summoned Roessler to an interview in his office at midnight. The late hour was chosen deliberately. It enabled Roessler to make the trip to the Bureau's headquarters without being seen. At that time – as Masson knew – Switzerland was swarming with German agents who had slipped across the frontiers.

Masson sat stiffly behind his desk as the stooped figure of Roessler was shown into the room. This alone made Roessler nervous – it was unlike Masson who normally greeted him in the most friendly manner. The Swiss launched his verbal onslaught as soon as Roessler was seated opposite him.

'You are a German. Our arrangement was that you would operate your transmitter on the clear understanding that copies of every signal from Woodpecker would be sent to me…'

'There have been no signals to send…'

'You expect me to believe that for several weeks Woodpecker has been off the air every night? Has the system broken down then? Do you think Woodpecker has been caught by the Gestapo? All this is highly unsatisfactory. Has a man called Allen Dulles, an American, been near you?'

'I have never heard of such a person,' Roessler protested.

Masson leaned back in his chair. Roessler's statement carried conviction. But the American agent who had slipped into Switzerland via Vichy France earlier was proving a bloody nuisance. He travelled about openly, making no attempt to conceal himself. He practically advertised his existence. Already the Germans knew he was in Switzerland. As these thoughts drifted through his mind, Masson watched his visitor who stirred restlessly as he glanced round the room. Floor-length curtains shrouded the windows and the silence was increased by the mist rolling in from the lake.

'It really puzzles me – this sudden gap in Woodpecker's flow of information,' Masson said suddenly.

'You think it doesn't puzzle me? And the season for the summer campaign on the Russian front is approaching – so Moscow should be avid for details of the Wehrmacht's order of battle. Hitler could destroy them with the huge forces under his control…'

'I know. Well, we'll have to see. You may go now…'

Masson sat alone at his desk for a whole hour after Roessler had left. If Hitler won on the Eastern front his next objective might be the invasion of Switzerland. There had been that unnerving reference to Switzerland his code-breakers had still not managed to unravel. Lucy's activities – if ever discovered – were a tremendous provocation to the Nazis. Masson simply couldn't make up his mind whether to let Roessler go on.

At the end of April 1943 Woodpecker's transmissions were resumed. Masson had no way of knowing that this event coincided with the movement of the Fuhrer and his entourage back to the Wolf's Lair aboard the Amerika. Among the people who travelled back with him on the train were Reichsleiter; Martin Bormann; the stiff-necked Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel; and the amiable but wily General Jodl.

The Amerika was steaming steadily closer to the Wolf's Lair when Bormann entered the dining-car. Hitler sat at a table with Keitel and Jodl and had commenced his meagre lunch consisting of a bowl of celery soup.

' Mein Fuhrer, Bormann announced as he sat in the empty chair, 'there is news of the English fugitive, Lindsay…'

'They have captured him? Alive, I hope…'

'Well, no – not yet. But Hartmann has reported they are making for Yugoslavia. He is following them..

'Ah, Hartmann!' Hitler was amused at Bormann's expense. 'I recall at the Berghof you wished to entrust this mission solely to the Gestapo and the SS. Was it not I who insisted Hartmann should join the search?'

'It was your decision alone, mein Fuhrer, once again confirming your infallible judgement,' Bormann agreed obsequiously.

Jodl nearly choked on the particularly succulent morsel of pork he was enjoying. The Reichsleiter's self-abasement almost made him throw up. Jodl was one of the few men capable of standing up to Hitler. There had been a famous pre-war incident when he had engaged in a shouting match with the Fuhrer, contradicting him to his face.

'I don't know how you can stomach that meat,' Hitler remarked. 'A vegetarian diet…' He stopped himself launching into a long lecture and continued questioning Bormann. 'So, Lindsay and his associates did not head for Switzerland – as you were certain they would. The expensive luggage abandoned at the Westbahnhof should have warned you, Bormann. They were adopting a different role. Where does Hartmann think they are heading for now?'

'One of the British agents parachuted in to liaise with the Yugoslav guerrilla forces…'

'Which one specifically?' Jodl enquired.

'He gave no further information except that he was continuing on their trail,' Bormann replied.

Keitel remained silent, apparently absorbed in his meal and the view out of the window. It was going to be one of the first warm spring days.

'Yugoslavia?' Hitler repeated thoughtfully. 'I wonder if they all realize what awaits them down there? They are entering the gates of hell…'

By 2.30 on the following morning, the Amerika had long ago pulled up in the small railway siding at the Wolf's Lair. Hitler and his entourage were settled in at their familiar quarters inside Security Ring A. There was one exception.

A shadowy figure made its way alone through the darkness of the engulfing pine forest until it reached the log pile. Agile hands removed the few logs concealing the transceiver. The coded signal the hands tapped out was in two parts. The first gave the new German order of battle decided on by the Fuhrer at his midnight conference.

The second part, in special code, reported Hartmann's news as to the present whereabouts of Wing Commander Lindsay and his likely destination. The transmission completed, the hands replaced the concealing logs and switched off the small, masked torch. Woodpecker had resumed communication with Lucy.

As you drive into the Kremlin you enter a city within a city – like one of those Russian, hand-painted wooden dolls which opens to reveal inside a smaller replica of the original doll. You drive across a vast courtyard surrounded with medieval houses and ancient churches and the great entrance doors close behind you, sealing you off from the outside world. It is like travelling back through several centuries in time.

At five o'clock on the morning of 1 May Laventri Beria was in a foul humour as he sat in the rear of the black limousine – the only colour known to Soviet manufacturers of luxury cars. Seeing nothing of the inner-city, he tried to guess what emergency could have caused Stalin to summon him at this ungodly hour. Beria was getting very short of sleep.

The Generalissimo, fully-dressed in his simple uniform, freshly shaved, waited for the NKVD chief in his office in the modern block. He remained standing and made a gesture for Beria to sit down. This compensated for the Georgian's lack of height and put his visitor at a psychological disadvantage.

'That Englishman, Wing Commander Lindsay!' Stalin's voice was harsh, his manner venomous. He paced around the gloomy room for a few moments and Beria froze. Seldom had he seen the Georgian so disturbed. 'He is escaping to Yugoslavia..

He used the word escaping in a tone of withering sarcasm. 'Do you really think, Beria, it would be possible for a man to escape from Berchtesgaden without the Fuhrer's connivance?'

'You have clearly detected some conspiracy?' Beria suggested cautiously and then waited. He was accustomed to Stalin using him as a sounding-board for his own thoughts – especially if he was under great stress. The atmosphere reeked with tension and that mixture of odours old Western hands associate with Russia – human sweat, repellent Soviet soap and disinfectant.

'I have received another signal telling me not only that this Englishman is making for Yugoslavia but also – listen to this, comrade – that he will attempt to get in touch with spies dropped by parachute into that country by our so-called Allies. You see the next development, of course?'

'Perhaps you would enlighten me?' Beria requested.

'It is all a capitalist trick!' Stalin's face suddenly flushed red as the blood coloured his complexion. 'Lindsay is a peace emissary from Churchill! He has agreed terms with Hitler which he is carrying back to London. Hitler goes to great lengths to conceal this from me – by returning Lindsay by a devious route. He hides his real aims even from his closest associates. Can you imagine the atmosphere of intrigue and mistrust which must prevail at the Hitlerite headquarters – one man pitted against the other?'

Beria could imagine it only too well, but was careful not to say so. It described perfectly the regime in the Kremlin.

'Perhaps the problem is not insoluble?' he ventured.

'I have already taken steps to deal permanently with our Wing Commander,' Stalin informed him.

On 2 May in London it was raining, which- was no great surprise, a steady drizzle which could soak you in five minutes if you were outside. Tim Whelby was outside.

He wore an ordinary, drab raincoat and pretended to be reading a newspaper in the dreary surroundings of Charing Cross station. It was also chilly and he shivered as he checked his watch. 10 pm. Exactly. Another three minutes and he would go back to his flat.

'An urgent signal has arrived from Cossack…'

The words were spoken in a whisper. Savitsky had appeared out of nowhere. He stood a foot away from Whelby and shook water off his umbrella over the Englishman. He turned and apologized in a normal voice.

'That's all right. I was wet through anyway,' Whelby replied in a sarcastic tone. He lowered his voice. 'Do get on with it, the police patrol round here…'

'Our Wing Commander is heading for Yugoslavia. We understand he hopes to contact one of the Allied agents there…'

'He's on his own?' Whelby could not keep the surprise out of his question. By now he had pieced together a fairly complete picture of Lindsay. He knew for certain the RAF type spoke fluent German but no one had mentioned Serbo-Croat. The whole thing seemed highly unlikely. 'Are you sure about this information?' he asked.

'All my information is correct,' the Russian said with some irritation. 'And no, he is not alone. He linked up with a group of Allied agents. They got him out of Germany.'

'What do you expect me to do about it?' Whelby demanded sharply. 'My area is the Iberian peninsula. He was coming out via Switzerland and on to Spain. I might have done something then.'

'He must not reach Colonel Browne alive. Even if you have to intercept him personally. That comes from the top. I'm going…'

'I would if I were you,' Whelby replied with a trace of bitterness. For God's sake, did they imagine he was a trained assassin?

Marooned in southern Austria, Wing Commander Lindsay had no inkling of how many different enemy groups were closing in on him. On the German side there were Colonel Jaeger and his deputy, Schmidt; the Gestapo, led by Gruber and his more intelligent colleague, Willy Maisel; and Major Hartmann of the Abwehr.

Stalin was being, kept constantly in touch with the Englishman's progress. He was further doing everything in his power to bring about the Wing Commander's early liquidation.

Finally, there was the most trusted quarter – London – a haven Lindsay was desperately trying to reach. And here Tim Whelby was waiting with orders to ensure that the Wing Commander never survived to deliver his report on his visit to the Fuhrer.

At this stage all the leading characters in the Great Game were living in a state of chronic anxiety. Stalin was sweating it out in case the Allies made a separate deal with the Germans. Roger Masson was having nightmares because he could not rid himself of the dread that Hitler would invade Switzerland if he found out the activities of Lucy. Roessler was worrying because he seemed to have lost the confidence of his Swiss protectors.

The key to all this desperate insecurity was that in May 1943 the Germans still stood a good chance of winning the war. They had the resources, the men – and the generals – to destroy Soviet Russia.

In London Tim Whelby was only too aware of the military situation. His most recent encounter with Josef Savitsky had shaken him badly. Although he had earlier had the briefest of meetings with Lindsay he had hardly noticed the man. Others had been present – men whom it had seemed more important to observe and cultivate.

'During a recent trip to Madrid,' he remarked casually to Colonel Browne shortly after the Charing Cross meeting, 'I was told of a rumour we might be exploring the possibilities of a separate peace with Hitler if the terms were right…'

'Really?' Browne hardly appeared to be listening as he stooped over the papers on his desk. 'Who told you that?'

'Just an informant I'd sooner not name. I told him that the whole thing was a load of rubbish. How do these rumours start?'

'The way all rumours start I suppose…'

'The same informant told me.. Whelby invented the story while he went on talking.. that Lindsay was sent on a peace mission to Hitler and is now negotiating a treaty with him…'

'Really?' Colonel Browne's tone expressed sheer disbelief in what he was being told and he reached for another document.

Whelby dropped the subject. It would be dangerous to pursue the topic any further. The devil of it was he had still not obtained Browne's confidence so he would open up on Lindsay's real role.

When Paco and Lindsay – with Bora and Milk – reached the ancient town of Graz from the Sudbahnhof they did not linger. They arrived well after dark. Mingling with the hurrying crowd of other passengers, they walked out of the station without interference.

'No sign of security or police checks,' Lindsay commented.

'This is a backwoods place, remote from the war,' Paco replied as they continued on foot. 'No taxis here and the last bus left an hour ago. You can walk three kilometres. You've been sitting down for a whole day!'

'There's a different atmosphere.' He glanced behind and Bora was following with Milic in the distance. The moon shone brightly on cobbles worn by centuries of footfalls. 'It might be a country at peace, like Switzerland.'

'Don't get too rhapsodic,' she warned. 'We hide up here for about three weeks in case they're watching the frontier for us. Then we cross into Yugoslavia at the Spielfeld-Strass border post – and that may be no picnic.

'We're all going over together?'

'You and I together. We change clothes into Serbian costume. Bora and Milic provide the diversion to help us through…'

'I should help them…' he began.

'You should do as you're bloody well told! This is my territory. You're a package we have to deliver to one of the Allied military missions…'

'Maybe I should apologize for existing…'

'Now, don't go all sulky. That I can do without…'

During the verbal flare-up Paco had kept her soft voice calm as though they were carrying on a normal conversation. She glanced sideways at him as he stared straight ahead.

'You saved our bacon at the Sudbahnhof when you rushed me aboard the train. We make a good team, Lindsay.' She grasped his free arm. 'We're all exhausted – that's the moment to watch it. We've just passed a couple of Austrian policemen in uniform…'

'I never even saw them.'

'Because we were too busy arguing like a normal couple. I saw one of them grin and make a remark to his companion…'

'You devious little bitch!'

'It's nice to be appreciated…' She squeezed his arm and began walking faster. He stared at her – she had deliberately provoked the row to get them past the policemen. Her quick-mindedness and ingenuity never ceased to amaze him. This, he thought, was how Paco's group had survived so long.

'What did you do before the war?' he asked. 'I don't know much about you…'

'I worked for an advertising agency in Belgrade. I was what they call in London an account executive. To survive in that job you have to be very persuasive with all types.'

'You joined the Partisans after Belgrade?'

'I joined the bloody Cetniks – they support the monarchy, which I was quite happy about. That is, until I found they were collaborating with the Germans. I went over to the Partisans because they were fighting Germans. As simple as that…'

They spent the harrowing waiting time in an old house overlooking the river Mur in the centre of Graz. An old couple occupied the staging post. On Paco's instructions Lindsay exchanged not a word with either of them. He slept in a tiny bedroom with a window facing across the river to a weird clock tower perched halfway up a steep hill rising from the opposite bank.

He slept badly, tossing and turning on the unfamiliar bed, and through the open window chill air flowed into the room – he opened it so he could hear if the police called in the night. On the day they left the place he wondered whether the lack of sleep had been due to premonition. The crossing at Spielfeld-Strass was a bloody affair.

Part Three

The Cauldron: Der Kessel