The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Twenty-Nine

'There will be a train for Zagreb at Maribor,' Paco whispered to Lindsay.

'Where the hell is Maribor?' he enquired.

'It is the next stop down the line from Spielfeld-Strass. Of course there will be no trains coming from Graz today with the track shattered…'

They were perched at the back of a farm wagon drawn by a pair of horses. In front of them was a pile of freshly-cut logs, and behind the farmer holding the reins sat Bora and Milic. They had caught up with Paco and Lindsay by hurrying down the country road after their break through the frontier post.

The farm wagon had emerged from a rutted side track while they trudged along the road in the early afternoon. Paco, speaking Serbo-Croat, had persuaded the farmer to give them a ride. Her story had been ingenious.

'We were taking the train to Zagreb when the engine broke down at Spielfeld-Strass. It was going to be hours before they mended it and we have a rendezvous we must keep at all costs.'

A rendezvous. She had spoken the words in a certain way and the moustachioed old farmer with grizzled hair had studied her for a moment. Then, without speaking a word, he had gestured them to climb aboard.

'What was all that about?' Lindsay had murmured when they were settled inside the wagon.

'He thinks we are linking up with a Partisan group. He is a patriot, like most farmers who have been robbed of their crops by the Germans. He just doesn't want to know any details…'

The wagon moved at a surprising pace as the two powerful horses hauled the wagon steadily forward along a deserted road. There was no sign of the Germans, no checkpoints. Lindsay still felt uneasy but could not put his finger on what was bothering him.

'There's no danger of a train getting through from Spielfeld-Strass?' Lindsay persisted.

'Do you always worry like this, question everything?' Paco wondered. 'You yourself saw the state of the track when we fled from the place.'

'You have to be right, I suppose.' Lindsay sounded unconvinced. 'As to worrying, yes – except when I'm in a fighter plane.'

'I'd have thought that was when you did worry.

'You're too preoccupied – watching in all directions, especially your tail.' He glanced at her. 'And then you have no one to think about except yourself…'

'And what does that mean?' she asked, staring straight ahead.

'Just a remark off the top of my head…'

'You're a funny man, Lindsay. Still, I'll soon have you off my hands when we pass you over to one of the Allied military missions.'

There was relief in her tone at the prospect, Lindsay reflected bitterly. As the wagon creaked and wobbled along the road they kept bumping into each other. He could feel the warmth of her body, the firmness of her flesh beneath the thick jacket she wore.

Occasionally she stole quick glances at him, studying his face as he now stared rigidly ahead. Bora, who had a machine-pistol concealed in a multicoloured carpet bag, perched on the logs as he watched the road constantly. The farmer never spoke to his passengers, sitting drooped forward with the reins in his hands. Time passed like a dream with the gently swaying motion of the wagon.

'We're coming into Maribor,' murmured Paco. 'Here you do let me carry on any conversations. It has to be Serbo-Croat from now on. You are a deaf mute.' There was a trace of humour in her voice. 'Make the effort, try and act dumb…'

The farmer dropped them outside the small station and again they split up into pairs, Lindsay accompanying Paco while Bora and Milic kept to themselves. The first shock came when Paco enquired about the next train to Zagreb.

She conversed with a gnarled old railway official who could not have been a day under seventy.. Lindsay listened to the same sing-song, zizzing sound he had first heard when they had queued up behind the two old women at the Spielfeld-Strass frontier post.

Thanking him, she linked her arm inside Lindsay's and led him on to the platform where peasants with large bundles waited. She was careful not to speak until they were by themselves, close to the end of the potholed platform.

'Why are there so many old people about?' he asked. 'I noticed it as soon as we came into Maribor – not a youngster anywhere. In Germany it's understandable…'

'For the same reason,' she said tersely. 'The young ones are in the mountains – with the Partisans or the Cetniks. Damnit, Lindsay, you were right. We'll have to decide what to do…'

'The problem is…'

'It's quite incredible – but I double-checked with the old boy. The next train for Zagreb is due – and it's coming through from Spielfeld-Strass!'

'Never underestimate the enemy. We'd better miss this train and catch the next one…'

'Which is some time tomorrow. Maybe! And there's a German headquarters in this town. It's small, I don't know anyone – and it's Croat territory. Wait here and we could get caught by a routine check. What's the matter with catching this train?'

Taco, we don't know who may be on board. Who will they have sent after us? Because you can guarantee they've sent someone to track me down. Colonel Jaeger? Gruber? Hartmann? Take your pick…'

'I hope it's not Jaeger. I'm sure he'd recognize me – even in these clothes. We spent hours at the Four Seasons in Munich together when I wheedled those transit documents out of him…'

'You never did tell me how you managed that…'

'Here we go again. I've told you once already. I didn't have to sleep with him – that's what you're thinking, isn't it? And Jaeger is a professional soldier, an honourable man whose concern is to do his duty – at least that was my impression. His hobby just happens to be women. What difference does it make to you?'

'So you're prepared to risk this train from Spielfeld-Strass?'

'When the alternative is hanging about in Maribor, yes! And there won't be anyone dangerous on that train. We've moved too fast for them.'

In London during the evening Tim Whelby met Savitsky in a crowded pub in Tottenham Court Road. When he walked into the place at exactly nine o'clock he was surprised to see the Russian sitting in a secluded corner with half a pint of mild and bitter in front of him. It was the first time his contact had arrived early at a rendezvous.

Whelby ordered a double Scotch at the bar and threaded his way among the tables. He paused before taking the vacant seat on which Savitsky had perched his hat to keep the chair occupied.

'Do you mind if I sit here? It's packed tonight.' 'Please join me.'

Whelby swallowed half his Scotch and observed that the Russian watched his action with disapproval. To hell with this pedant of a messenger boy. He swallowed some more and placed the glass on the table.

'Lindsay has crossed the border into Yugoslavia.' 'The Germans aren't doing very well, are they?'

Whelby commented. 'When did this happen?' 'Earlier yesterday. In the morning.'

Whelby was badly shaken. He grasped his glass casually and deliberately held on to it without drinking. It was important never to display any signs of agitation in Savitsky's presence. Whelby had no doubt regular reports assessing his ability and potential as a Soviet agent were despatched to Moscow.

But how the hell had this information reached the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens so swiftly? There had to exist a truly extraordinary system of communication. It began to look as though the system originated inside Germany itself.

'So where do you think he's heading for now?' Whelby asked.

'It's obvious – one of the Allied military missions working with the guerrillas. He could be air-lifted out any time now. Much more speedily than we ever anticipated. You have to stop him ever reporting back to London..

'Thanks a bundle,' Whelby said laconically. 'I beg your pardon? What does that mean?' 'You've told me all this before – about the need for stopping him. A reason would help…'

'You have your instruction. The reason behind an instruction is not your concern. Surely your people must have received a communication from Lindsay about this latest news..'

'If they have, they're not telling me.'

'You, must make enquiries – discreetly, understand?'

'That's reassuring,' Whelby said quietly. 'You remember, I hope, that my area is Spain and Portugal. If you check with an atlas when you get back you'll find they're some distance from Yugoslavia.'

'You make it sound difficult, so when you solve the problem it will make you seem so much more clever.'

'That's right,' said Whelby. 'You've got it in one.'

It was well after dark when the masked lamps of the engine hauling the train from Spielfeld-Strass approached the platform of Maribor station. Hartmann, pleading a need for fresh air, had left Maisel in the compartment while he went into the the corridor, lowered a window and peered out.

His pipe – his trademark – was in his pocket. On his head he wore an old, peaked cloth cap not unlike those worn by so many middle-aged workers in Yugoslavia. Unless viewed very close up, not even his friends would have recognized Major Gustav Hartmann of the Abwehr.

He had excellent night vision which was rapidly adjusting to the darkness as the train chugged slowly towards the station. There were a lot of people waiting to board the train. Hartmann was recalling in photographic detail the descriptions he had coaxed out of the wounded Captain Brunner, descriptions of the girl and the man whose papers he had found out of order just before 'the world blew up'.

On the platform at the far end near the point where the engine would pull up Paco and Lindsay wearily watched the oncoming train. Earlier they had risked leaving the station to get something to eat and drink at a small cafe in a back street – the bill was outrageous because the proprietor produced meat which he had obtained on the black market.

'I'll sleep all the way to Zagreb,' Paco said. 'You'll lend me your shoulder for a pillow, won't you?'

'We'll take it in turns,' Lindsay snapped. 'One of us has to stay awake all the time in case of an emergency.'

'I know! I know! There's a whole Panzer division aboard and their sole job is to find us.' She paused after the outburst which was so unusual. 'Sorry, I'm dog-tired. It's the responsibility. You're right, of course. We'll agree some kind of roster. Oh, Jesus, Lindsay – you are right!'

They could see the engine-cab as it glided past – the armed troops inside. And then the coal-tender with the machine-gun mounted on top. What they did not see was the head of a man poked out of a window in a rear coach, a man wearing a cloth cap with a peak who was staring at them.

Colonel Browne was working late in his office at Ryder Street when Whelby arrived back on the pretence of collecting papers he had forgotten. It was becoming a habit for Browne to catch up on his own paperwork when everyone had left the building.

Daytime hours were occupied more and more with futile conferences as the momentum of the war built up. Browne blamed the Americans – it seemed they could only communicate verbally. He laid down his pen and stretched his aching limbs.

'Take a seat, Whelby. Care for a drink?'

'I've just had a couple – at a pub in Tottenham Court Road. I was chatting to a Flying Officer Lindsay – no relation to the Wing Commander who trotted off to Berchtesgaden, I suppose?'

'Doubt it. Our Lindsay is an only child.'

'Any word from him yet since he took off?'

Tired out, Browne hesitated, and Whelby noted the brief pause. 'Not a dicky bird,' the Colonel replied curtly. 'We'll hear in due course…'

'Must be worrying – the waiting,' Whelby probed. 'No more than a dozen other problems.'

Whelby was in a cleft stick. He knew that the command structure in the Mediterranean had recently been changed. Allied Forces HQ under Eisenhower and Alexander in Algiers controlled operations in North Africa, including Monty's Eighth Army which was now involved in the final stages of the Tunisian campaign.

But subversive operations in the Balkans, including Greece and Yugoslavia, were directed by the Middle East Command with GHQ in Cairo. Whelby could see no way of introducing Cairo into the conversation because he was not supposed to know where Lindsay was. He'd just have to wait: events had a way of playing into his hands.

'Something on your mind?' Browne asked. 'Yes, getting to bed. Good night, sir.'

Bormann had talked at the Wolf's Lair about Lindsay's suspected escape into Yugoslavia. The information reached him via two sources. When Hartmann had temporarily ditched Willy Maisel at Graz Airport the Gestapo official immediately phoned Gruber in Vienna.

'Hartmann, the wily bastard, gave me the slip. He's flying on his own, in a Fiesler-Storch he had standing by, to Spielfeld-Strass to investigate an incident. He thinks Lindsay crossed the border today…'

'What incident?' Gruber demanded sharply. 'What evidence has he to support this crazy theory?'

Gruber knew Martin Bormann, knew how cautiously the Reichsleiter proceeded. He would need convincing evidence of what could so easily be a rumour. God knew there had been enough false sightings of the Englishman.

And Bormann always demanded evidence because that was how the Fuhrer's mind worked. How many times had he heard Hitler rave at generals who presented him with bad news and then backed down on cross-examination.

'There was a guerrilla attack,' Maisel explained and told him the whole story. 'Hartmann linked it with the Frauenkirche… stick grenades and smoke bombs… the same technique…

Gruber was sufficiently convinced to decide it would be dangerous not to forward this report to Bormann. After all, he was now able to emphasize he was merely passing on information which had originated from Willy Maisel. If there was any backlash it would be Maisel at whom the finger could be pointed.

He at once phoned Bormann, who listened in silence. Gruber knew the Reichsleiter was working out all the angles as to how this new development might affect his position.

'I will pass on your message to the Fuhrer,' Bormann decided, careful not to reveal he had already heard direct from Hartmann. 'The incident at Spielfeld-Strass is not, of course, conclusive.'

'It comes from Maisel,' Gruber stressed. 'And he bases what he told me on a conversation with another source – Major Gustav Hartmann.'

'Ah, the Abwehr! Who trusts that nest of traitors any more!'

Apparently the Fuhrer did. When Bormann reported the news to Hitler he called for a large-scale map of Southern Europe which he personally spread out over the large table in the conference room. His finger traced a route from Munich to Vienna via Salzburg.

'It makes sense,' he pronounced. 'Bormann, you sealed off all routes from Munich to Switzerland? Yes?' 'It was the obvious escape route.'

'And the group which is endeavouring to smuggle Lindsay home again is professional…'

'We have no evidence of that. Bormann objected.

Hitler exploded. 'You have forgotten what happened at the Frauenkirche? Only professionals could have pulled that off! They made fools of the troops who were actually waiting for them! What happens next? Hartmann searches the luggage they abandoned at Vienna Westbahnhof – which tallies with the description of the luggage the so-called Baroness Werther and her so-called chauffeur were carrying when Mayr saw them boarding the Vienna Express at Munich. You agree, Jodl?'

The two other men in the room, Colonel-General Alfred Jodl and Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel had so far listened in silence. Jodl nodded his head.

'It would seem so, my Fuhrer, he replied cautiously.

'Next,' Hitler continued excitedly, 'we have the incident the following morning at the Sudbahnhof. Later, under interrogation, one of the two murderers of a German soldier describes how he saw a girl and a man boarding a train for Graz. And where does the line south from Graz lead to? Spielfeld-Strass, where there is a far more serious incident. Agreed, Keitel?'

'It is logical, my Fuhrer.'

'Hartmann now reports his conclusion that he discerns the same signature – an apt word, that – in the grenade and smoke bomb attack at the frontier post as was used at the Frauenkirche.'

Hitler spread both hands on the map, his arms rigid, and stared round at the three men listening to him in total silence. His expression was cynical.

'I have five million Bolsheviks facing me on the Eastern front. I have to give daily orders as to how to destroy this barbaric horde. On top of that I have to play detective to point out how Lindsay is trying to escape with the aid of the only man after him who has any brains at all! Hartmann! Gentlemen, this conference is adjourned.'

His voice dripped with contempt as he marched out of the room and along the corridor which led to the outside world.

It was by an equally complex communication route that the news of Lindsay's likely escape route reached London. Within hours of Hitler's ending the conference, Rudolf Roessler at his apartment in Lucerne received a signal in the special code from Woodpecker.

He immediately re-transmitted this to Cossack in Moscow, where Stalin once again summoned Beria into the Presence. Silently, he handed the signal concerning Lindsay to his secret police chief. It was his policy always to show the white-faced man with pince-nez signals from Lucy. Should anything go wrong, Stalin was then in a position to off-load the full blame on to Beria. Lucy would become a Beria operation.

'You think this Lindsay is trying to contact one of those Allied espionage missions?' Beria suggested.

'Surely that is the only possible conclusion,' Stalin remarked acidly. 'When the time is ripe they will send a special aircraft to pick him up and transport him to Algeria, then on the London. We cannot trust Tito to liquidate him, so what is the solution?'

'Your agent in London will have to see he never reaches his chief.'

'Good.' Stalin retrieved the signal from Beria's limp hand. 'On your way out, send in my personal coding officer.'

In the darkened room lit only by a cone-shaped light on his desk Stalin sat down and composed the message, phrasing it with great care. When the coding officer arrived he remained crouched over his desk as though no one had entered, finishing the job. The officer, standing rigidly to attention, saw only a hand holding the slip of paper extend itself past the light.

'Send this immediately to Savitsky at the London Embassy.'

This intricate sequence of events explains why in London the Soviet agent, Savitsky, surprised Tim Whelby by arriving first at the pub in Tottenham Court Road.

For the first time in Savitsky's experience a signal from Cossack had carried the word Urgent. The Russian was also thankful that – by pure coincidence – a routine rendezvous had previously been arranged for this particular evening. Emergency, hastily arranged, meetings were highly dangerous.

And now, so far as Savitsky was concerned, the ball had, thank God, been passed to Tim Whelby. Washington, London, the Wolf's Lair, Vienna and Moscow, life was not so very different. If you were handed a grenade with the pin out, you passed the deadly gift into other hands as swiftly as possible.

As the train from Spielfeld-Strass pulled into Maribor station Hartmann returned to his compartment to find Willy Maisel hauling down his case from the rack. The Gestapo man fastened the top button of his coat to muffle himself against the night cold.

'Not leaving, I trust?' Hartmann enquired with just the right tone of apparent interest.

'I have to keep Gruber in touch with developments which, as far as I can see, amount to zero. I can phone him from military headquarters here. By now he'll be like a cat on hot bricks to report again to Bormann.

'I think I'll stay on board this train to Zagreb,' Hartmann remarked casually as he settled into his seat and lit his pipe.

'Please yourself. I think it's a waste of time.'

Hartmann waited until Maisel had gone and then went back into the corridor and lowered the window again. He peered out along the platform and was just in time to see Paco and Lindsay board a coach near the engine.

The train had left Maribor some time earlier and was proceeding south through the night when Willy Maisel reached army headquarters, flourished his identity folder and tried to call Gruber in Vienna.

He was informed by the operator that for security reasons all calls had to pass through the headquarters in Graz. He gave his name and waited, suddenly aware that he was ravenous. An aroma of food cooking drifted up into the room where he sat. He was quite unprepared for what happened next.

'Is that Willy Maisel speaking?' a gruff voice demanded.

'Yes, I have already asked to be put through.. 'Colonel Jaeger speaking, Maisel. What are you doing in Maribor?'

'I left the train which came through from Spielfeld-Strass. I was with Major Hartmann of the Abwehr 'Put him on the line, please.'

'I said I was with him. That was about an hour ago. He stayed on the train.'

'Did he give any reason for that decision? Where is he headed for now? Is there any sign of the Englishman, Lindsay?'

The questions were fired at him as though Jaeger were issuing commands to troops prior to an attack. Maisel cursed the infernal luck which had put him in touch with the SS colonel. He had no information, so what harm was there in relaying this negative factor?

'Hartmann decided to go on to Zagreb. I have no idea why – it seemed a pointless decision. There is no sign of Lindsay…'

'Hold the line!'

Jaeger covered the mouthpiece and turned to Schmidt who stood next to him. He explained briefly the gist of the conversation. 'See what you can get out of him,' he suggested.

'Schmidt here, Maisel. Can I ask you to be very precise about the sequence of events, please? Now, what exactly did Hartmann do?'

'Nothing!' Maisel was mystified and not a little irritated. 'As the train was coming into Maribor he went into the corridor and looked out of the window. He said something about needing a breath of fresh air…'

'Which side of the train was he looking out of? The platform side?'

'Yes, that's right…'

Maisel was beginning to wonder whether he had missed something but could not fathom what the devil it might be. Why the hell didn't they get off the line and let him speak to Vienna?

'Now, please think carefully,' Schmidt continued. 'Before he went into the corridor and peered out of the window had he given any indication he was staying on the train?'

'None at all. Only after he came back. I was surprised…'

'Thank you, Maisel. I'm handing you back to the operator who will transfer you to Vienna now you are identified. All calls are monitored since the massacre at Spielfeld-Strass…'

'How many were killed..?'

'Here is the operator – goodbye, Maisel…'

Schmidt put down the receiver and looked at the Colonel. He had just taken a nip of cognac from his hip flask and offered it to his deputy who shook his head. Jaeger replaced the screw cap before he spoke.

'You put him off the track, I hope? Get anything out of him?'

'He'll be smarting over the curt way I ended the conversation – which will stop him wondering what I was getting at. He sounded exhausted, I'm glad to say.'

'That's the way I like the opposition,' Jaeger commented with some satisfaction. 'Exhausted! Now…'

'It is interesting. Hartmann looked out of the corridor window as the train was approaching the platform at Maribor. Only after that did he announce he was continuing on to Zagreb. I think he spotted someone on that platform, someone waiting to board the train…'

'And I think you could be right. That clever bastard always was a loner. The train takes a good six hours to reach Zagreb from Maribor. Why don't we steal a march on our secretive friend, Gustav Hartmann?'

'Fly direct to Zagreb from here and be waiting for him at Zagreb station when the train arrives?' Schmidt suggested.

'You're a mind-reader, my dear fellow,' Jaeger said jovially. 'So, what's keeping you? Arrange the flight and we'll leave for Zagreb at once.'