The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The phone was ringing in Harrington's office when they arrived back. He flew in from the doorway, skidded across the highly-polished floor – as he'd done so often before – recovered his balance, laid one – hand on the desk and grabbed up the receiver with the other before it stopped ringing.

'Harrington…'

'This is Linda Climber. That is the American Embassy? Embassy is what I said. You want it a third time?'

'Harrington at your service, as always. A package has arrived for you from New Jersey.'

They had established positive identities. Sliding into his seat, Harrington gestured towards the extension phone with his other hand. Carson, who had closed the door, picked up the instrument.

'I can't be sure one way or the other – about our friend..' She sounded unhappy as she went on. 'He seems OK. Got a pencil and pad? Good. We're staying at the Hotel Sharon. Yes, together, so to speak. Phone number and extension…'

Harrington scribbled in the excruciating scrawl only he could decipher. 'Anything more about our friend?'

'He goes off on trips on his own. There could be someone else inside this hotel. He stumbled once. Said he was going out and I watched from an upper floor window overlooking the exit. He never appeared. After ten minutes he came back, said he'd left his wallet in another suit and maybe I would like to come with him for a morning stroll…'

'What time was that – the missing ten minutes?' 'Precisely ten o'clock to ten after ten…'

'His manner when he came back?' Harrington pressed.

'Normal.' A pause. 'Maybe a little more relaxed, a shade of relief. That's all. I'm phoning. from Mulligan's place. He's out at the moment.'

'Take care. Keep trying.'

'I intend to.'

They replaced the receivers at the same moment. Carson picked up an officer's stick and began walking round the room, tapping his teeth lightly with the end of the stick. He paused by the open window. Not even a shiver from the curtain this morning. An airless humidity like a smothering blanket had closed over the Grey Pillars complex.

'Warn the pilot at Benina to be ready for immediate take-off,' Carson said. 'Don't supply a map reference yet. It may be changed at the last minute. Talking about minutes – that missing ten minutes out of Standish's life keeps niggling at me …'

'What can you do in ten minutes?'

'Men have changed history in that time. I don't like any of this, you know.'

'Check urgently with London? Express your doubts.'

'And what will London reply?' Carson demanded savagely. 'Not urgently, for a start. Maybe in a fortnight – when they've cranked up their brain-boxes – a dismissive answer. Our courier has our full confidence. Wholly reliable…' He spoke the few words in a plummy voice. 'They like "wholly" – probably because it sounds like "holy"…'

'So, no signal to London?'

'We have to do it ourselves – as always.' Carson's pace became brisker. 'I'm leaving you in sole charge. Anything crops up, you decide. Right?'

'Of course. You're going somewhere?'

'First available plane to Lydda. Have transport standing by to rush me to Jerusalem. Pray God I spot the niggle which is driving me mad…'

With Stalin now placing full confidence in the information from Woodpecker and Lucy, by early winter '43 the Red Army had retaken Kiev. All along the front, at the price of enormous blood-letting, the Russians were advancing.

Snow had fallen on the forests smothering the Wolf's Lair. The branches of the trees were sagging, encased in ice. Frequently inside the dense forest a rifle shot would ring out. Crack! But it was not a rifle shot – it was the sound of a branch snapping off.

A lowering sky like a grey sea, heavy with snow, pressed down on the encampment. The atmosphere – as much as the news from the front – was affecting the occupants. Only the Fuhrer maintained an air of optimism.

In his Spartan quarters inside a wooden building – he disliked the bunker built for use in an air raid – he was striding back and forth as he lectured Bormann. He wore his usual dark trousers, his tunic with wide lapels, the three buttons fastened down the front, his sole decoration the Iron Cross attached to his breast.

'I need Wing Commander Lindsay brought back here urgently. We must negotiate an arrangement with England. I will guarantee the existence of the British Empire, an important – unique – stabilizing force in the world. If that is ever destroyed there will be chaos. Then we can devote our whole strength to eliminating the Soviets, as much England's enemy as ours. Where is Lindsay now? My lunch is getting cold…'

On the table, with a cover to keep it warm, was a bowl of vegetable gruel. Hitler ate sparingly, took little interest in his food. His sole weakness was apple cake which he indulged in at the Berghof.

'I'm worried that Lindsay may have detected your impersonation,' Bormann began tentatively. 'I have read his file. He was once a professional actor. Some of the visitors here look at you with puzzled expressions – Ribbentrop…'

'And who has said a word?' Hitler challenged him.'Even if they suspect anything how dare they voice their doubts? I am the keystone of the arch holding up the Third Reich. Without me they are nothing.

They know that…'

'Then there is Eva…`

'Eva!' The Fuhrer was amused but he spoke with mock ferocity. 'Eva and I get on fine! You keep your lecherous eyes off her or you'll hang from your ankles!'

'My Fuhrer! I did not mean…'

'I ask you again. Where is Lindsay?'

It was a typical tactic of the Fuhrer's – to divert someone from an awkward topic they had raised by introducing another subject which threw them off balance. Eva Braun had told him about this ploy.

'I am expecting a signal at any time from Colonel Jaeger who has made his headquarters in Zagreb. He is still hunting Lindsay in Yugoslavia. Jaeger has so far successfully kept the Partisan group hiding Lindsay on the move – to stop the English air-lifting him out of the Balkans…'

'He is an excellent fellow, this Jaeger. I chose him for the task myself. Remember? But he must move quickly. Alexander now controls southern Italy. Allied Military Missions are in close touch with the Partisans. Bormann… Hitler's mood changed suddenly. He hammered the table with his fist. Gruel from the covered bowl slopped over the edge. 'See, you have ruined my lunch. I want results! I want Lindsay!'

'I will go to the signals office and get in touch with Colonel Jaeger at once…'

'I'll expect you back by the time I have finished what remains of my gruel.'

'A fresh bowl…'

`Go! Bormann, go!'

On his way to the signals office Bormann met Jodl who had just entered Security Ring A after showing the special. pass issued by Himmler. Jodl, his face looking drawn, waved with his gloved hand round the compound.

'This claustrophobic place is getting us all down… 'Where have you been, my dear chap?' Bormann asked casually.

'For a walk in the forest – and a think…'

`So, apparently, has someone else…'

Keitel, his boots clogged with snow, muffled in greatcoat and scarf like Jodl, had also just come in through the checkpoint. His manner distant, as always, Keitel raised his baton to them and changed direction to avoid them, stalking at his slow, measured tread towards his quarters.

'Keitel also is going round the bend,' Jodl observed.

'He must have gone a long way into the forest. Did you see his boots?'

'So, he too likes to get away from it all. You seem to be on edge, Bormann,' Jodl teased, 'Trouble with the Fuhrer?' The tall Chief of Staff folded his arms. 'You should take some exercise yourself, he remarked and smiled cynically. 'The hours you keep, it's all going to get on top of you one of these days.'

'Trouble with the Fuhrer? Of course not! And I took a walk early this morning.'

'I know. I saw you from my window…

He watched Bormann hurrying away, a small, stumpy figure scurrying through the snow. Jodl shrugged, clapped his gloves together to warm his frozen hands.

'Servile little creep.'

In the depths of the forest the transceiver operated by Woodpecker still rested in its log hide. Thick snow was packed hard where gloved hands had that morning concealed it after usage.

'Colonel Jaeger has just come through on the phone direct from Zagreb…'

In the signals office Bormann, short of breath, settled his ample buttocks in a chair. Without a word of thanks he took the instrument from the duty officer and jerked his head. Get out and leave me alone …

Bormann here… I was just going to call you… The Fuhrer…'

'Kindly listen to me. I am short of time…'

Jaeger's deep, booming voice cut off the Reichsleiter in mid-sentence. The Colonel was speaking in his barrack-room voice. He had finally run out of patience with the whole gang at headquarters. What the hell did they know about what was going on in the outside world?

'I am phoning so you can tell the Fuhrer we have the Partisan group holding Lindsay cornered. Time and again they have slipped away from us after a battle involving appalling casualties. I am launching an airborne attack – using paratroopers. This should give us the element of surprise which has hitherto been lacking.. Put the Fuhrer on the line and I'll tell him myself.'

'I have understood you so far…'

'So far! Good God, man, I've just given you the most precise military appreciation of the situation possible. That's all.'

'But the timing of the operation…'

'Not settled. Depends on weather conditions.' 'And Lindsay is definitely with this group?'

'Are you listening to me? Has your memory gone?

I've just used the phrase "the Partisan group holding Lindsay".'

All traces of patience had vanished from Jaeger's voice. By his side Schmidt looked anxious, wagged a warning finger. The Colonel lifted a threatening hand, holding the earpiece like a club, then smiled and winked.

'What was that?' he snapped into the 'phone. 'When may I expect news of developments?' Bormann repeated.

'When they develop.'

He slammed the earpiece back onto the cradle and walked to the first-floor window of the ancient stone villa on the outskirts of Zagreb. It was snowing, but only lightly, the flakes drifting in the windless air.

'What do the Met geniuses predict this time?'

'A complete clearing of the weather in twenty-four hours from now. A cloudless day tomorrow. Positively no snow. No "ifs" or "buts" and their report is in writing,' Schmidt replied.

'You twisted their arms, you must have done! Are. Stoerner's paratroopers standing by?'

'Men and machines are ready for the air-drop when you give the word…'

'What would I do without you, my dear Schmidt?' 'Have a nervous breakdown…'

Jaeger threw back his head and roared with laughter. This rapport between senior officer and subordinate had been built up slowly, in the great campaign of '40 in France; during the terrible ordeals on the Eastern front. The Colonel's expression became grave again…'

'It's going to be a race against time, you realize that?'

'I don't quite follow you, sir…'

'That fine weather, if it materializes. Perfect for our parachute drop, but-perfect also for the British to land a plane on that plateau to take out Lindsay. And God knows we have had enough rumours of an imminent airlift. From inside Fitzroy Maclean's headquarters, from other sources. Oh, I've decided to go in with the paratroopers myself. Long time ago since I dangled from a 'chute…'

'For God's sake, sir. After Kursk you were going to be invalided out of the Army. You remember what that doctor told you in Munich.'

'That I should only do what I felt like doing. I feel like dropping in on Wing Commander Lindsay. Inform Stoerner one more parachute will be required.'

`Two more. I took the same course with you at Langheim.'

'Now listen to me, Schmidt.' Jaeger's tone was grave. 'I've a premonition about this operation. You have a wife and two children…'

'Like yourself. I've carried out every order you've ever given me. Don't make me guilty of insubordination now…'

'Oh, hell – have it your own way,' Jaeger growled.

As Schmidt left the room to 'phone Stoerner, he sat down at a desk and took a sheet of notepaper from a drawer. It took him some time to compose the letter to his wife. He had always hated correspondence.

Dear Magda, We've had a marvellous life together. And all thanks to you, for your infinite kindness and consideration. I am writing on the eve of a somewhat difficult business we have to undertake. I wouldn't like you to suffer a shock if they send one of those bald official communications…

'Signal just came in,' Reader told Lindsay. 'It's the green light. Plane lands tomorrow at 1100 hours, subject always to the ruddy weather changing…'

'Christ, it's snowing. Are they mad?'

'Clear day forecast for tomorrow. And our weather's coming in from the west – over the Adriatic from Italy, so they should know.' Reader sounded buoyant. 'My God, inside twenty-four hours we could be out of the bloody Balkans forever. Promise myself one thing. I'm never coming back to this hell-hole.'

He looked up as Paco strolled over to join them. She wore a camouflage jacket, a heavy woollen skirt and knee-length boots. Her blonde hair was neatly brushed and she carried Reader's sten gun in her right hand. He had shown her how to use it.

'Care to come for a walk, lady?' Reader suggested chirpily. 'Get the old circulation moving.'

'All right. How are you feeling this morning, Lindsay?'

'I'm OK.'

He watched her walk away across the plateau with Reader, so close together they were almost touching. His expression was bleak, bitter. He had been standing, holding his stick. He was mobile now, his temperature was back to normal. Under the ministrations of Dr Macek the glandular fever had been brought under control.

Their relationship with the Partisans had radically altered over the months they had fought with the group, constantly fleeing from the Germans, evading Jaeger's attempts to trap them. Often by the skin of their teeth.

Reader, still playing the role of Cockney sergeant, still wisely concealing his real rank and Intelligence background, was largely responsible for the change. He no longer hid his transmitter, which he lugged from place to place. He had engaged the aggressive Heljec in a number of verbal battles and had won.

'If you want the guns and the ammo,' he had persisted time and again, 'you must co-operate with my people. Lindsay, myself, Paco – if she wants to leave – have to be flown out. Hartmann, too. The plane that takes us out brings in the guns.'

Reader had lost track of the weeks, months, the argument had raged in the quiet times. Haggle, haggle. It was the way of life in the Balkans. He had thrown in Hartmann as a bargaining counter, intending to sacrifice the German at the right moment. That had precipitated a violent struggle with both Lindsay and Paco.

'Hartmann has been very kind to me,' Paco told Reader. 'He must have a place on the plane.'

'He's a Jerry,' Reader told her. 'Heljec won't wear it – and what's all the fuss about, anyway…'

'Gustav Hartmann is coming with us,' Lindsay intervened. 'And that's an order. Don't forget I outrank you, Major…'

'And who's organizing this how's-your-father?' Reader had exploded. 'Spendin' 'arf me bloody life arguing the toss with this bandit. You know what his latest demand is? Mortars and bombs, for Christ's sake. He'll be lucky…'

'Hartmann is Abwehr,' Lindsay said quietly. 'Your people are going to be very interested in grilling him…'

'It's not on! It's not part of my instructions…'

'It's part of mine.' Lindsay's tone was clipped. 'I don't have to give you a reason. It just so happens that he's anti-Nazi. I've been talking to him…'

'Anti-Nazi!' Reader snorted. 'All the bleeders will be when the chips are down.'

'That's enough. I'm giving you a direct order. Hai! Alarm is part of the deal. It's up to you to fix it. That's why you were sent here. Make Heljec give way or I'll take over the negotiations myself.'

'If you say so. Wing Commander! '

Lindsay had deliberately concealed the fact that Hartmann also was an invaluable witness to the extraordinary conditions prevailing at the Wolf's Lair. On the morning before the plane was expected, as Paco wandered off with Reader, Hartmann appeared and joined Lindsay.

'Those two seem to be developing a relationship,' Hartmann observed as he perched on a rock next to Lindsay.

'I'm not blind…'

'Get her out of your system,' the German advised. 'A woman is an unpredictable creature. Falling in love with someone who will never love you is worse than Gestapo torture. It lasts longer..'

'She's got into my bloodstream…'

`Then I'm very sorry for you.'

Hartmann tamped tobacco from his pouch into his pipe and lit it with enormous satisfaction. He rationed himself to one pipe a day now. Paco had brought him a fresh supply taken by a Partisan off a dead German. At the time Hartmann had thought, what things we'll do to satisfy our cravings!

'The plane is due tomorrow,' Lindsay said suddenly.

'I rather thought so. I saw them clearing rocks from the airstrip over there. It doesn't seem possible. In this weather.'

He brushed flakes from the shoulder of his jacket. Snow fell gently, flecking the ground cleared for the airstrip. It was cold – but the raw, biting wind of recent days had dropped.

'A clear, sunny day is forecast for tomorrow,' Lindsay said.

'Which might coincide with a fresh attack by Jaeger. Our persistent Colonel has been too quiet recently.'

'Heljec has made all his dispositions. All approaches to the plateau up the ravines are guarded. Heljec may not be worried about us but he does want those sten guns.'

'I saw you writing again in your diary, huddled under a rock before Reader spoilt your day.'

Lindsay produced his black, leather-bound book from inside his jacket, keeping it closed to protect it from the drifting flakes. He balanced it in his hand and looked at Hartmann with a grim expression.

'I've been scribbling away for weeks, as you know. Everything's there. Our suspicions about the second Hitler at the Wolf's Lair. Your conclusions as to the identity of the Soviet spy. Then if anything happens to me this simply has to get to London and they will know…'

'Don't sound so doomed…'

'It really doesn't matter whether I get through or not. That's being realistic. The diary must get through. And it would help if you got through with it. There is a first-class seat booked on the plane for you..

'Thank you…'

Hartmann puffed at his pipe which no longer tasted so good. He was disturbed by Lindsay's attitude, the sense of fatalism in the RAF officer he detected. And all the time they had talked, Lindsay had been watching the two small silhouettes walking slowly round the plateau. Paco and Reader.

NDA OK QSR5 NDA OK QSR5..

Seconds later Meyer, listening at the Dresden Monitoring Centre with Walter Schellenberg opposite him, recorded a series of five letters and five figures. They provided the agreed code.

'Now,' said Meyer, 'we switch from the 43-metre band, which The Ghost uses only for the call sign, to the 39-metre band. That's the wavelength on which they transmit the main signal…'

Meyer had cracked Lucy's system.

It had taken months of patient experimentation but the peacetime watchmaker had persisted. Schellenberg's shrewd eyes gleamed with triumph as he leaned forward, a pair of headphones over his ears.

Ten minutes later the transmission Meyer was recording ended. It was the night before Jaeger was due to launch his airborne attack on the plateau in Bosnia. Schellenberg removed his headphones, stood up, reached an arm across the table and shook hands with Meyer.

'You are a genius. You will go down in history. You know this, I hope?'

'I have just done my job.'

'And the mobile monitoring station at Strasbourg..

The 'phone inside the glass cubicle rang. Meyer reached for the instrument and nodded to Schellenberg.

'This will be them, I suspect. They're very quick…'

He identified himself, nodded again to Schellenberg, listening with only the occasional comment.

'Again? As on previous occasions. You're quite sure?'

He thanked the caller profusely, a point Schellenberg did not miss. The chief of the SD – SS Intelligence – never did miss a point. Meyer, always so modest, had trouble concealing his satisfaction.

'Strasbourg has pinpointed the location of The Ghost for the fourth time. It is Switzerland. It is Lucerne.'

'I've got him! Masson of the Swiss Intelligence.' Schellenberg shook his head in reluctant awe at the audacity of his Swiss opposite number. 'He is permitting a secret transmitter to send signals to the Soviets. We know it's the Soviets…'

'Because they always use five letters and five figures for the code,' Meyer interjected.

'Exactly! After all these months!' Schellenberg couldn't keep still. It was this uninhibited and infectious enthusiasm he displayed which partly explained his popularity with subordinates. 'Now I can break Masson! Compel him to reveal the identity of the Soviet spy at the Wolf's Lair! We may be in time to change the outcome of the whole war.'

It was typical of Schellenberg that he talked openly to Meyer about the most closely guarded state secrets. Meyer was completely trustworthy. By sharing his confidence Schellenberg gained his subordinate's total loyalty, his incredible application to his task.

'I gambled on this fourth confirmation,' Schellenberg continued. 'I have already made an appointment to meet Masson within hours inside Switzerland…'

'They will let you across the border?'

Meyer was astounded. Technically it was a gross violation of Switzerland's precious neutrality which that country preserved in a way a girl protects her virginity.

'I travel incognito,' Schellenberg explained with a flamboyant flourish. 'There have been previous visits. Now, I must leave Dresden immediately. Brigadier Roger Masson, I am coming…' Snow was falling heavily as he hurried from the building.

It was ten o'clock at night in Zagreb when Jaeger heard from the guard-room downstairs in the old villa that Karl Gruber of the Gestapo was waiting to see him.

'Tell him to wait!' Jaeger slammed down the 'phone and turned to Schmidt who sat at another desk, poring over a map of Bosnia. 'We need every minute to check over the details of Operation Raven, we'll be damned lucky to get an hour's sleep and who do you think lands on our doorstep? Gruber of the Gestapo!'

'He must smell profitable pickings – to risk his precious skin even in Zagreb. You'd better see him.

Get to know what he's up to and we can sidetrack him.'

'You're right, of course.' Jaeger's admission was reluctant. 'You always are,' he added drily.

'Shall I go down and bring him up myself? I could twist his tail first. Tell him how busy you are. Is it really that important? Better get some sleep and leave it till morning. I might just pull it off! We'll be gone by morning.'

'You'll be lucky! Not a word about Operation Raven,' he warned.

'Do I look thick?' Schmidt enquired.

'Ask an embarrassing question, expect an embarrassing reply.'

On the eve of the parachute drop the two men had, if possible, drawn even closer together. I'm born lucky to have Schmidt, Jaeger reflected as he waited alone. I should have stopped him coming on this thing…'

He only had to wait a few minutes. There was a knock on the door. He called out Enter! And framed in the doorway stood Gruber accompanied by Willy Maisel. The whole bloody clown act had arrived. Behind the two Gestapo agents Schmidt threw up a mock salute.

Jaeger sat behind his desk like a man of stone, offering no greeting. He noted Schmidt had rolled up the map on his desk before going downstairs. Trust him to attend, unbidden, to the small details.

The two Gestapo officials, sat in chairs Schmidt placed some distance from the desk. Gruber promptly shifted his closer to the desk. He extended a pudgy hand which Jaeger, glancing down at his papers, pretended not to notice. He thought Willy Maisel looked unhappy about the whole business.

Gruber swivelled round in his chair. He stared at Schmidt, now seated behind his desk. He turned back to stare at Jaeger from under pouched eyes. There were signs of fatigue about both men.

'This is highly confidential,' Gruber began. 'It would be better if we were alone, if you please.'

'I don't please. And your suggestion is an insult to Schmidt who would automatically assume my command if anything happened to me.'

'Is something going to happen to you, Colonel?' Gruber asked.

'Something could happen to any of us. The Croat rebels like to place time-bombs in the most unexpected places. You would be a prime target if they gain knowledge of your presence…'

He had the satisfaction of seeing the dough-faced Gestapo officer wince. Again he said nothing more, forcing Gruber to make all the running.

'We understand you may soon have Wing Commander Lindsay in your hands. He is to be handed over to us for questioning at Gestapo headquarters in Graz.'

'Thumb-screws and pliers for a little amateur nail-varnishing?' Jaeger shook his head. 'Not a chance. If we ever apprehend Lindsay again I shall personally escort him into the presence of the Fuhrer at the

Wolf's Lair.'

Gruber lost his temper. Maisel lifted his eyes to the ceiling as his companion snatched a folded document from his pocket and threw it on the desk. He raised a clenched fist to crash it on the desk as he opened his mouth to speak. Then he caught Jaeger's expression. The fist dissolved in mid-air.

'My instructions,' he said in a normal tone, 'are by order of the Fuhrer.'

Jaeger unfolded the sheet, watching Gruber all the time. Then he read the document carefully, refolded it and handed it back politely. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms.

'That bit of bumf is Signed by Bormann. I have a document granting me full powers – signed by the Fuhrer himself. Go back to your headquarters and get some sleep. Better still, go to the airfield and fly back to Germany. I cannot guarantee your safety any longer in this part of the world. It's up to you…' He stood up, clasping his hands out of the way behind his back. 'A safe journey, gentlemen…'

'Open the van yourself, Moshe. See what is within your grasp after you have carried out the assignment, said Vlacek.

He handed his small, heavily-built companion a key. The van stood inside a secluded courtyard in a remote part of Jerusalem. Moshe – it was not his real name – was a commander of the Stern Gang, one of the most active and violent of the Jewish underground groups.

Moshe took the key, looked again swiftly round the cobbled yard and inserted the key in the lock. He opened the left-hand door and stared at the pile of freshly-greased Lee Enfield. 303 rifles. At the back of the van was a pile of ammunition boxes.

'Hurry up,' urged Vlacek. 'This is sight of the goods only. Delivery only after the job is done.'

'This Lindsay you want liquidating. When is he coming in?'

'Soon. Soon. He will be flown into Lydda Airport.' 'Too well-guarded.'

'Wait till I've finished, Vlacek snapped. 'He will stay in Jerusalem for one day, possibly two. You will be told where he is being kept. You will know immediately he arrives…'

Dark-haired with a sun-tanned complexion, the skin pitted with old pock-marks, Moshe nodded dubiously, climbed inside the van and picked up a rifle at random.

Testing the mechanism after checking to make sure it was unloaded, he released the safety catch, squinted along the sight under cover of the van and pressed the trigger. Laying down the rifle, he walked over to one of the boxes, produced a tool from under his shabby jacket and levered the top off the box.

He picked up a handful of cartridges, selected one, took it back to the rifle and inserted the cartridge in the breech. First, he had put back on the safety catch, much to Vlacek's relief. Extracting the cartridge he threw it back into the box and dropped the rifle. With an agile movement he jumped out of the van and left Vlacek to close and lock it.

'Your Lindsay is dead,' he said.

It was a bitter irony. At the starting point of Lindsay's journey Reader bartered guns to save the RAF officer's life, to fly him to the safety of the Middle East.

In Palestine Vlacek used guns stolen-from a British Army depot to pay the Stern Gang to end Lindsay's life. In the vicious turmoil of war it was not money – not gold – which was the universal currency. It was guns.

As soon as Moshe had driven away on his motorcycle, Vlacek made a signal. The double doors of one of the buildings enclosing the abandoned courtyard were opened. Inside stood a larger van without markings, its rear doors open. Two heavy planks formed a ramp leading up to its interior.

Vlacek himself took the wheel of the smaller van loaded with the guns and ammo. He drove it with great skill across the yard, up the improvised ramp and inside the larger van. The other man closed the doors and hurried to the cab.

Within minutes of Moshe's departure the larger van moved under the archway leading into the deserted street beyond. Keeping well within the speed limit, it followed a devious route to another courtyard a couple of miles away where it was parked inside a similar building.

Vlacek emerged from the larger vehicle, brushing dust off his clothes. He had no intention of risking the Stern Gang mounting a raid to seize the rifles before they completed their side of the arrangement. As in Yugoslavia, there was no trust anywhere.

'1100 hours tomorrow,' said Reader as he closed the telescopic aerial of his transceiver. 'They're sending a Dakota, God help us. Let's hope they send us one with wings on…'

'That's really positive?' asked Paco. 'No reservations?'

'Gospel. I've given them the map reference. Lady, you want a ticket to convince you.'

'You know bloody well we've had enough false alarms before…'

'They're coming. They want Lindsay. Some geezer has flown out specially to meet him.'

'What geezer?' Lindsay demanded, suddenly alert.

It was well after dark. Huddled together in a cave, Lindsay, Paco and Hartmann had waited for Reader to come back after operating the transceiver from an eminence at the edge of the plateau. It had stopped snowing, one hopeful sign. But it was bitingly cold. No fires could be lit. Heljec had banned them.

'Can't tell you more till we're aboard the plane and away,' Reader replied laconically. 'Instructions.' He slipped inside his makeshift sleeping-bag.

'Whose instructions? What is our destination? Why all this mystery?'

Lindsay was uneasy. He couldn't have said exactly why, but he felt something was wrong. Reader snuggled down, made no effort to conceal his irritation.

'Security, I suppose. Now, mate, do I get some shut-eye or are you going to yammer on the whole bleedin' night? You've a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Haven't we all?'

'H-Hour is 1100,' Schmidt informed Jaeger as he put down the 'phone. 'Just came through from Stoerner himself.'

'I know.' The Colonel initialled the last operational order and pushed the sheet across his desk, then stretched and yawned. 'I decided on the time for the attack myself. Not dawn as usual, they'll be alert for trouble then. By eleven they will have relaxed, decided it's just another peaceful day. I'm so tired I could fall asleep in this chair…'

'On your feet,' said Schmidt. 'I didn't have these camp beds brought in here to decorate the room.'

Jaeger stood up, stripped off his tunic, sat on the camp bed and took off his jump boots. He had put them on in the morning to get used to them. Supple, comfortable jump boots can make the difference between life and death to a paratrooper.

Lying full-length on the bed, he pulled the army blanket over him, Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at Schmidt before closing his eyes.

'1100 hours tomorrow. Sleep well.'