The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Forty

General Walter Schellenberg was driven across the Swiss border at Konstanz. He would have never known he was moving into another country had he not passed through a frontier control post. Konstanz is one of Europe's geographical oddities.

The town is literally split in two. The northern district is German, the Southern Swiss. Seated in the back of the Mercedes, its windows masked with net curtains, he wore a smart civilian suit. The pause at the post lasted no longer than one minute. Brigadier Masson had sent an aide who brushed aside all normal formalities.

It was late evening, very dark – the night was moonless – as the Mercedes proceeded to a small place called Frauenfeld. Brigadier Masson awaited his guest in an upper room of the Gasthof Winkelreid.

A table was laid for dinner. Solid silver cutlery. Superbly polished glass which gleamed in the candlelight. Schellertberg's favourite wine in an ice bucket cradled in a tripod. The panelled walls reflected the faint shiver of the candles.

'My dear Brigadier Masson! What a pleasure to meet you again! If you knew how relaxing it is for me each time I visit Switzerland! For a few hours I forget all my cares and worries.'

Schellenberg was at his most charming and ebullient, so cordial that his manner would have disarmed a man less wary than the Swiss Intelligence chief.

Masson's mood was quite different. He greeted the German with courtesy but his expression was cool and aloof, almost cold. A sensitive Man, Schellenberg spotted the change in atmosphere from his previous visit but pretended not to notice.

They had dinner.

'I came across a Rubens recently… quite by chance… a supreme example of his genius.'

Schellenberg ate and drank with enjoyment and appreciation. He talked intelligently. Old master paintings. Goethe's work. A new French novel. Beethoven's music. Masson simply listened, his blue eyes studying the German's mobile expressions.

It was only when dinner was over, when they had retired to two armchairs drawn up in front of a fireplace where half a tree trunk blazed, crackled and spat, that something snapped.

No servants would enter the room again unless summoned by Masson. Schellenberg held his balloon- shaped glass of fine old Napoleon brandy up to the light. He was gazing contentedly at the glass when he spoke.

'The Fuhrer's life is in danger. You are responsible. You are harbouring a Soviet spy transmitting our top secrets to Moscow. Immediately the Fuhrer knows this he will order an invasion of Switzerland. Who is the spy at the Fuhrer's headquarters? I have come for his name.'

Jock Carson was sitting at the bare wooden table in the office placed at his disposal in the police barracks by Sergeant Mulligan. Through the open window he could see the lights of Jerusalem, there was no blackout here.

A faint stench of cordite, which he always associated with death, drifted in with the cloying night air. It was uncomfortably humid. He stared at the table, its well-scrubbed surface disfigured with old ink stains. He had been waiting for a call from Cairo for over an hour. The 'phone rang twice only before he whipped up the receiver.

'Carson here. That you, Harrington? We're on a direct army line so get on with it. Any gen?'

'We may have panned a little gold.' Harrington's voice was faint but clear, clear enough for Carson to detect triumph.

'I said get on with it, for Christ's sake…'

'You know that list of names you gave me of people staying at the Hotel Sharon? Well, I've checked it with the register at Shepheard's. Apart from Standish there is one common denominator. Man called Vlacek. V. Vlacek. V for Victor.'

'How long was he at Shepheard's?'

'Two nights. The night before Standish arrived – and the night Standish was there.'

'Pity we don't know when Standish knew he was flying out, Who is this Vlacek?' Carson asked.

'A perfectly respectable Pole working for that funny propaganda outfit near Abassia Barracks. Come out from Russia with the Polish Army..

'From Russia!'

'What's up, Chief?' Harrington sounded perplexed. 'It's the Nazis we're fighting, not the Russians.'

'Sometimes I wonder. This Vlacek seems to have a licence to roam…'

'I checked that, too. Discreetly. Gather he had overdue leave. Decided to take it on the spur of the moment…'

'That's it! What I've been looking for. That really is stretching the long arm of coincidence to breaking- point. An interview with Mr Vlacek is overdue. And we've damn-all time left.'

'That's why I called you as soon as I knew. Does Standish know Lindsay is coming in?'

'He had to…' Carson sounded regretful. 'Also that he's flying out on a Dakota. I couldn't sit on everything. What he does not know is the timing. Nothing else? I've got an appointment – with Mr Victor Vlacek…'

Linda Climber had gone to bed early. She turned on her side and with her index finger explored Whelby's face, starting with a thick eyebrow and drawing the finger along his cheekbone and down the bridge of his fleshy nose.

'You are a very mysterious person, Peter. For a man on vacation you seem to have so much to do.

You're always flitting off somewhere:- •

'I've always liked walking alone. I've walked alone since I was a child in India.'

He cradled her nude back with his arm and pulled her closer. She persisted talking as he turned his wrist and glanced at the time.

'You're a very deep man, Peter. I can sense it. You lock so much away inside you.'

'And now I'm going to flit off again for a few minutes.' He kissed her and got out of her bed. 'I've forgotten to phone an old friend I promised to meet tomorrow.' He put on his dressing gown and slippers. 'I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't run away…'

'Dressed like this? With nothing on? You can 'phone your friend from here…'

'The number is in my room. Never could remember numbers…'

He glanced in a wall mirror, combed his hair, and looked back at her as she sat up in bed, clutching the sheets to her bare breasts. Whelby had never understood this curious aspect of feminine modesty. He nodded reassuringly as he left.

Linda swore under her breath. What perfect timing. She was hardly in a position to follow him to see where he was going. Which might mean nothing. But there had been too many such nothings.

'Definite news at last,' Whelby told Vlacek inside Room 24. 'Lindsay is being flown in sometime tomorrow to Lydda Airport. The machine will be a Dakota. It could land after dark, but it will be tomorrow.'

'I need more than that…' The bony-faced man made an impatient gesture. 'Surely they gave some idea of the time of arrival, where the plane is coming from?'

'They didn't. I asked. Mulligan went vague. I didn't press. It would have looked suspicious. I showed you Lindsay's photograph, so identification should be no problem.'

'I would like to keep that photograph. May I have it?'

'No. It has to go back into the file I pinched it from in London. Overlooking a tiny detail like that can lead to disaster. When do I see you again? What method will you employ to s… s… solve the problem?'

'You won't see me again. The method is not your affair. I am leaving this hotel tonight. Are you enjoying yourself with Mrs Climber?'

A sharp look, assessing Whelby's reaction. A waste of time. The Englishman's bland, diffident manner gave away nothing as he wandered round the room, hands in dressing gown pockets.

'She worries me. She asks a lot of questions. She is clever but I get the sensation of being interrogated.. ' 'You met her how?'

'A chance meeting on the plane flying in from Cairo. She came over to me…'

'She approached you?'

Something in Vlacek's voice made Whelby turn and study the little man's expression. He didn't like what he saw. It had been a mistake to talk about the American woman.

'Why? What are you getting at?' Whelby demanded.

'Get dressed immediately. Go straight to the barracks.. Vlacek checked his watch. 'Stay till midnight and be sure people know you are there all the time. Say you are waiting for a 'phone call from Cairo. Anything. Establish your whereabouts.'

'I don't like this…'

'Will your fingerprints be present in Mrs Climber's room?'

'No. That's why I keep my hands in my pockets. It's become second nature…'

`Have you left anything in that room which belongs to you?'

Vlacek's cross-examination was remorseless, spoken in a monotone Whelby found unnerving. 'No,' he said abruptly.

'Don't go back there. Go straight to your own room, dress quickly and leave. You have ten minutes.

'I don't like this, Whelby repeated. 'What are you planning? The woman doesn't know a thing…'

'That is your assumption. Do as I say. From now on I am in full control. You are under orders.' Vlacek smiled unpleasantly. 'You always have been…'

Jock Carson parked the Vauxhall by the kerb, got out, locked the car and strolled towards the Hotel Sharon he could see in the distance as a glow of lights. A lot of lights for that hour. He saw the two empty police cars parked carefully in the shadows as he drew closer. He quickened his pace.

One of the night duty guards intercepted him as he was about to mount the steps to the terrace. There seemed to be unusual activity inside the place.

'You've heard about the murder, sir?'

'What murder?'

God, he thought, they've got Whelby.

'Some American woman staying here. Apparently she…'

Carson never did hear the end of his sentence. He bounded up the steps, pushed open the door and walked into the reception lobby. A blue-uniformed Palestine policeman stopped him.

'Excuse me, sir, could I have a word? You're staying here?'

Carson produced his special identity folder, handed it to the man and stared around as though searching for a clue. The policeman handed back the folder and looked uncomfortable.

'Sorry, sir. You're part 6f the investigation?' 'Where do I go?'

'Room 8, first floor..

Carson strode across to the reception counter, his stocky legs moving like pistons. Ignoring the clerk, he turned the hotel register through a hundred and eighty degrees and ran his finger down the list of names. Mrs L. Climber, Room 8. Mr P. Standish, Room 6. V. Vlacek, Room 24..

'Can I help you…?' the clerk began.

Carson ran up the stairs, paused at the top to check his watch. A quarter past midnight. Another uniformed policeman stood on guard outside Rooth 8: The same routine of showing his folder. Inside, the room was crowded with policemen. A middle-aged man in civilian clothes carrying a bag was on the verge of leaving. They were checking for fingerprints, taking photographs with a flash-bulb. Sergeant Mulligan came forward.

'Nasty business this…'

'May I see her?'

Not from choice. But a feeling of more than duty. Carson had sanctioned Linda Climber's mission to Palestine. He had had doubts but Linda had persuaded him. They had a quid pro quo arrangement with the Yanks. An American girl worked for British Intelligence; he had provided an English Wren to work for them. It had seemed like an original idea. At the time. He approached the bed, Mulligan at his heels.

'She was garrotted,' Mulligan warned. 'A piece of wire like they cut cheese with, so the doctor here says. Not a palatable sight…'

She was lying back on the pillow which was stained red. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, her expression one of terror. Stony-faced, Carson observed the bed-clothes were crumpled and pulled free of the mattress. All the signs that she had fought for her life.

The room was a bigger mess. Drawers pulled out, the contents spilled on the floor. A jewel case lay on the floor, the lid ripped from the hinges. Carson felt a twinge of nausea. When he spoke it was with unusual harshness.

'Room 6 is next door. Occupied by Standish. I suggest you check it for his fingerprints. Was she raped?' His mind was flitting all over the bloody place. 'No,' Mulligan replied. By the way, this is Dr Thomas..'

'Not raped,' Thomas said in a professional, dry voice, heavily Welsh. I have seen all this before, I just want to go home and get back to bed. 'But sexual intercourse had taken place very recently. This evening.'

'Definitely not rape?' Carson persisted. The point was more important than probably anyone else in the room realized.

'I've just said so,' Thomas told him. She was willing…'

Carson turned to Mulligan who was looking at him curiously. 'I'd like you to get on with checking

Room 6 for fingerprints, for comparison In here. It doesn't matter if Standish is in bed. Get him up.'

'He's not in bed. He's not even in the hotel. And my men are dusting his room for prints now. They used the manager's pass-key. Standish has been at the barracks for the past two hours. Waiting for a call from Cairo, I gather…'

'When did it happen?'

Carson avoided looking at the bed. He didn't even look at Thomas who was replying to his question. He disliked doctors.

'Until the post-mortem…'

'I know all that!' Carson was at his most dictatorial. 'I don't want the reservations. Give me what you'll qualify as an educated guess…'

'You always write other people's dialogue for them?' Carson had got under Thomas's skin. He continued not looking at him as the doctor went on. 'Some time between ten and midnight, closer to midnight as far as I can judge…'

'Which exonerates Standish of any suspicion,' Mulligan observed. 'The check on Room 6 is pure routine. I think Dr Thomas wants to get off – if you have no more questions…'

Carson shook his head and waited until the doctor had gone. 'What's the verdict about how it happened? Place looks as though a hurricane hit it.'

'Robbery with extreme violence. Her jewel case was jemmied open. Nothing left. Signs that a ring was forced off the finger of her left hand. That suggests a professional burglar. The murder doesn't, particularly the method employed.'

'Room 24; Carson said. He unbuttoned the flap of his holster. 'Better bring a couple of men with us, with their weapons at the ready. A Mr Victor Vlacek occupies that room.'

Mulligan didn't argue the point, ask any questions. Calling to a couple of his men, he followed Carson out of the room. They arrived outside Room 24 and Mulligan looked to Carson for a lead.

'Pass-key,' Carson whispered. Ambidextrous, he held his. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in his left hand, took the pass-key with his right, inserted the key carefully in the lock and turned it with equal care. Then he took hold of the handle, revolved it quickly and threw open the door.

They stood just inside the doorway, caught off balance. The room was empty and in a state of chaos. Clothes half-ripped off the bed. Pillows on the floor. Drawers pulled out and left upside down on the floor. Wardrobe doors open, a mess of clothes hauled off the hangers lying on the floor.

Carson tiptoed across to the bathroom where the door was open. He peered inside, shook his head, then a wisp of night breeze fluttered the curtain across the window. He walked across and looked out. Only then did he holster his revolver and turn to face the others.

'Bloody repeat performance,' said Mulligan. 'How many rooms has he turned over tonight?'

'Just these two, I imagine.

'I don't get it…'

'Probably that's the idea.' Carson gestured towards the open window. 'There's a fire escape out there. Any way out at the back of the hotel?'

'Easy as falling off a horse. There's a courtyard, garages, a low wall a kid could climb over, an open space of waste ground and beyond that he's on a quiet road. And there's a fire escape outside Mrs Climber's window, which was also open. When you brought us here I thought it was Vlacek but..' Mulligan made a helpless gesture. 'Same thing happened here. Where's his body?'

'I don't think you're ever going to find that, Sergeant. It was a very professional job. All round. I really am worried now…'

'About this?'

'I think this is just the beginning. Just for openers…'

Outside the Gasthof Winkelreid in Frauenfeld it was snowing heavily as Masson faced Schellenberg in the first-floor room. They could hear the rumble of a snow-plough the Swiss Intelligence chief had summoned to keep the road open. On no account must his German guest stay in Switzerland overnight.

'I insist that you reveal to me the name of the Soviet spy in Germany,' Schellenberg repeated. 'Otherwise I cannot be responsible for the consequences.'

'There will be no invasion of my country by the Wehrmacht,' Masson interrupted coldly. 'You are using blackmail but you are bluffing…'

'I do not bluff. There is a map in existence…'

'I have had a copy of that map for over two years…'

Masson was speaking the truth. The map Schellenberg alluded to had been printed in Germany. It showed the future frontiers of the Greater Reich which embraced all German-speaking peoples, including German-speaking Switzerland – seventy per cent of the entire country.

Despite the glowing heat from the great log fire the warmth had gone out of the conversation between the two men who now faced each other openly as adversaries. In all earlier encounters Schellenberg had alternately coaxed and threatened; Masson had been compliant and co-operative. It was Schellenberg who was in a state of shock. Masson was impassive but obdurate, refusing to give an inch.

'The Wehrmacht cannot cope with what it has on its plate already,' Masson continued bluntly. 'Opening up a new front is beyond it. Or haven't you heard that the Red Army is advancing beyond Kiev? The Wehrmacht is retreating everywhere. The Allies are in Italy. In '44 we all know they will open the Second Front in France…'

'We have our problems,' Schellenberg agreed.

' You may soon have your problems,' Masson said mercilessly. 'Supposing – I am only supposing – that Germany loses the war? You will need a bolt-hole to run to – to escape capture by the Russians. On your way to meet the Allies your route to freedom may well be via Switzerland.'

Nothing demonstrated more dramatically the changed relationship between the two men than their postures. While Schellenberg sagged in his armchair, one hand holding his empty glass of brandy, Masson sat erect like a judge, his expression stern.

'We know,' Masson pounded on, 'that with the encouragement and full backing of Himmler, you have already made fruitless overtures to the Allies – trying to come to an arrangement with them which would close out the Soviets..

It was true. Archives which have since come to light prove that as early as the end of '43 Himmler authorized Schellenberg to put out tentative peace feelers to the British. Himmler was taking no risks. If by chance the Fuhrer had ferreted out this treachery, Reichsfuhrer Himmler could have disowned all knowledge of what his deputy was up to.

'That bloody Casablanca announcement. Unconditional surrender,' growled Schellenberg. 'It stiffens the resistance of our people. Crazy! Crazy! Doesn't Churchill know the menace the West faces from the Bolsheviks?'

'Churchill knows,' Masson replied. 'Three thousand five hundred miles away from Europe, Roosevelt does not know. You will need your bolt-hole, my friend. One of these days. This part of our conversation I shall not report to my Commander-in-Chief, General Guisan…'

'I am grateful.. Schellenberg was reduced to gratitude. He made one last effort. 'You refuse to name the Soviet spy? Soon I must leave…'

'In that, I cannot help you.'

And although Schellenberg never believed it, Masson spoke the truth. He hadn't a cat's idea in hell as to the true identity of Woodpecker.

In Jerusalem, Sergeant Mulligan drove Carson back to the barracks at high speed through the darkened streets. The jeep did not slacken pace at corners. To Carson they seemed to skid round them on two wheels.

'You always drive like this?' he asked mildly.

'At night, yes. You don't want a grenade lobbed at us, do you? Corners are dangerous.'

'As bad as that?'

'Worse. Here we are, thank God.'

Mulligan's first action at two in the morning was to put out a full alert for Victor Vlacek. He had a complete description, obtained from Harrington in Cairo. Slamming down the 'phone, he looked across the table at Carson who was looking round the bare room.

'I can't guarantee anything,' he warned. 'He could slip over the border into Syria just like that. They'll warn the Free French, but why should they care?'

'Indeed, why should they?' Carson agreed wearily.

Vlacek was, in fact, never seen again. It was assumed he had crossed into Syria. From there he could so easily have travelled north, crossed the long Turkish frontier and made his way into the Soviet republic of Armenia.

As dawn cast its first ominous light over Palestine, the man called Moshe – who many years later occupied a high position in the Israeli government – was in position concealed behind a cluster of rocks above the road from Lydda to Jerusalem. He adjusted his field-glasses, and Lydda Airport jumped forward in the twin lenses. Moshe settled down for a long wait. This was the day.