The Leader And The Damned (40 page)

She caught Lindsay off guard. He had been studying the topography close to the border point. He realized she was making conversation for the benefit of the officer checking papers.

'It was a waste of time our coming in my opinion,' Lindsay responded.

The two old women ahead were handed their documents and the German studied Paco before taking her papers. She smiled at him but he showed no interest, which was exactly what Lindsay had expected. 'These papers are not in order, he said after only a glance.

The top of the green knoll closest to the frontier post below was occupied by three men. Two were alive. One was dead. The German machine-gunner who had guarded this key position sprawled behind his weapon had never heard Milic creeping through the trees. His first inkling that he was not alone was when Milic rammed home the knife.

British field craft, as taught in the training camps in England was an amateurish affair compared with the Serb's expertise. Now it was Bora who lay sprawled behind the gun mounted on a tripod.

Next to him Milic lay on the cold grass with a pair of field glasses focused on Lindsay and Paco as they

waited for their papers to be examined. Alongside Milic in neat, rows lay the stick grenades he had extracted from the canvas satchel he had carried on his back. A parallel row of smoke bombs lay behind the grenades.

'I think there is trouble down there,' Milic observed.

'What is wrong?' snapped Bora. 'They may get through without trouble. Trust Paco...'

'She has just given the signal,' Milic replied equably.

Through the lenses of the glasses he clearly saw Paco raise a hand to the handkerchief covering her head. It was the agreed warning.
We are in danger
…'

'The special stamp recently introduced is absent from both of these documents,' the captain at the frontier post informed Paco.

'But, Captain, these papers were stamped in Graz yesterday...'

'You mean they were forged in Graz yesterday!'

Paco raised her hand to her head as though straightening her handkerchief. She went on talking, holding the captain's attention as she produced another set of papers. Her manner became even more self-assured and with a hint of arrogance.

'We are on a mission. Have you not been informed? We should have been passed through without question. These papers, as you will see, are signed by SS Colonel Jaeger of the Berghof...'

Lindsay glanced round the hollow again, surveying the enclosing knolls as the captain, his eye caught by the embossed eagle holding the swastika in its claws at the head of the documents, began to study the transit orders.

A short, wide-shouldered figure appeared at the crest of the knoll closest to the frontier post. His right hand held something which he hurled in an arc. The object landed close to a group of soldiers and detonated.

The dull thump of the explosion knocked down the soldiers like a row of skittles. A second grenade landed. Lindsay made a fist and hit the captain in the centre of his chest. He toppled back inside the hut.

Grabbing Paco by the arm he hustled her forward until they were running.

'That log pile!' he shouted. The peaceful frontier post had erupted into activity and soldiers milled around like confused ants. 'We must get down behind it - the ammunition wagon...'

He threw her down bodily as bullets from a machine-pistol streamed at them, spinning chips of wood off the top of the pile. Peering round a corner he saw the next grenade describing an arc and dropping inside its objective - the ammunition wagon...

The world came apart in a shattering roar. The ground under their feet - the frost-coated, iron hard ground - trembled as though shaken by an earthquake. Lindsay lay on top of Paco, shielding her as debris rained down. The log-pile remained firm.

He risked another glance round the corner. The wagon had disappeared. A section of the track had disappeared. The Germans who had patrolled alongside the wagon had disappeared. Men with rifles - well spaced out - began advancing up towards the crest of the knoll from which Milic had hurled his grenades. Now, crouched out of sight, he tossed smoke bombs down the slope.

They burst just in front of the advancing file of troops and a wall of fog billowed between them and the top of the knoll. Sprawled full-length behind the German machine-gun, Bora stared, along the gun-

sight. The first German broke through the smoke. He waited. More troops appeared.

Lindsay checked carefully the position inside the hollow. Confusion still. Distant shouted orders. The frontier post but had also vanished when the ammunition wagon exploded.

'We go now,' he told Paco. 'No one is watching the road to Yugoslavia. What about Milic and Bora...'

'They look after themselves. That was the arrangement. They join us later...'

'Follow me. I'm going to run. Zigzag - it makes a hard target to hit. Keep well away from me...'

He took one final look and started running. Paco followed and kept to the side of the road. Lindsay was running down the centre, dodging from side to side. At the extreme right flank of the file of troops moving up the knoll a soldier saw them.

He stopped, turning as he lifted his rifle to shoulder level. He took careful aim at the Englishman, trying to anticipate , his next position. He was aiming slightly ahead of Lindsay. He took the first pressure. He was a marksman - which was why he was a flanker.

Bora swivelled the barrel of his gun. He sighted it on the man aiming at Lindsay and pressed the trigger. He kept his finger on the trigger, sweeping the weapon's stream of bullets along the line of climbing Germans. The flanker was dead. The steady rattle of the machine-gun continued, then ceased.

They were spread along the lower slope - every man who a moment earlier had been advancing towards the crest. In the hollow there was carnage but no sign of life. Black smoke drifted slowly from a large crater where the ammunition wagon had stood. The truck which had brought the ammunition boxes had vanished. Peace - a peace of horror - settled over Spielfeld-Strass.

'The incident bears the clear signature of the group we are pursuing,' Hartmann remarked as he extinguished his pipe.

The Junkers 52 which had flown the two men from Vienna to Graz was beginning its descent. Beside the Abwehr officer sat Willy Maisel. For weeks Hartmann had combed the Graz district for the fugitives without success, eventually returning to the Austrian capital. Now events had confirmed his judgement. Before boarding the Junkers he had phoned Bormann. He had heard Bormann repeating what he said and in the background the voices of Jodl and Keitel. The Reichsleiter's security was a farce.

'Signature?' queried the mystified Maisel.

'Their
modus operandi
- a repeat performance of the affair in front of the Frauenkirche in Munich. The report from Graz about the attack at Spielfeld-Strass spoke of grenades and smoke bombs. The same technique as in Munich.

'I see,' Maisel replied. 'You think then...'

'I don't think, my dear Maisel, I
know!
' Lindsay and his escort crossed into Yugoslavia at Spielfeld-Strass this morning. I tried to warn Bormann - Switzerland might not be the answer...'

'So now we enter Yugoslavia ourselves - into the cauldron as the Wehrmacht calls it,' Maisel commented without enthusiasm.

'An excellent description.- you can get scalded before you know what has happened,' Hartmann replied cheerfully. 'And I have to go into Yugoslavia. You are a free agent, Maisel...'

'I have my duty to do,' the Gestapo officer said stolidly.

The wheels of the plane bumped as they touched down and taxied along the runway. A building carried the legend
Graz Flughafen
. Hartmann was secretly amused at Maisel's trepidation. At - Vienna the Gestapo man had joined the plane at the last moment - sent, as Hartmann was perfectly aware, by Gruber to keep an eye on his investigation.

Hartmann had always preferred to operate on his own. Already he had laid plans to lose Maisel at the first opportunity. When they disembarked from the machine and Maisel began walking in the direction of the airfield building Hartmann dropped his case and stretched his arms.

'I'm going to exercise my legs...'

'I need coffee - I'm parched,' Maisel replied and walked on.

Hartmann waited until he had disappeared, then picked up his bag and walked rapidly across to the small Fiesler-Storch parked near the runway where a pilot stood smoking. He stubbed his cigarette quickly as Hartmann approached.

'Gustav Hartmann,' the German introduced himself breezily. 'I phoned from Vienna for a feeder aircraft to take me on to Spielfeld-Strass.'

'At your service, Major. Erhard Noske. May I take your case?'

'Fuelled? Ready for immediate take-off?'

'Of course, sir! Your orders were explicit...'

Five minutes later Willy Maisel, a cup of coffee in his hand, stared out of a window as the tiny plane took off, gained height and turned on a south-easterly course. Swallowing the rest of the coffee, which tasted like real coffee - these rustics out in the wilds knew how to take care of themselves - he ran to the control tower.

The plane which just took off. Who was aboard? What is its destination?'

'All flights are subject to the most stringent security. Who might you be?' enquired the late-middle aged Austrian.

'I
might
be Gestapo...' Maisel produced his identity folder. 'I
am
Gestapo. You want me to ask you again in words of one syllable?'

'Major Gustav Hartmann of the Abwehr is the passenger. He is flying to the airstrip nearest Spielfeld-Strass...'

'Bastard!'

'I beg your pardon - I have answered your questions.'

'Not you. At least I don't think so,' Maisel replied drily.

The airstrip materialized like a conjuring trick. They had flown the whole way from Graz in a heavy overcast, grey damp clouds like the thickest of ground fogs. Hartmann - who disliked flying - had spent most of the time trying to recall that there were no mountains in the way between Graz and the border. They dropped like a stone.

The airstrip - no more than a preserved grass runway - lay beneath their landing wheels. They were down before Hartmann had time to adjust to the fact that they were landing. A Mercedes stood waiting, two men in the front seat.

'Very efficient of you, Noske,' Hartmann commented as he shoe-horned himself out of the plane and accepted his bag from the pilot. 'To have the car I ordered waiting. And a chauffeur as well, I see. The other man is a guard?'

'I have no idea who those people are,' Noske replied.

'You haven't? I see,' Hartmann responded grimly and took his time lighting his pipe.

He walked slowly to the open Mercedes, pausing to get the pipe going properly. There was an icy breeze blowing across the hard, rutted field. Let them ruddy well wait his convenience. It was Colonel Jaeger - with Schmidt beside him - who greeted Hartmann affably.

'Jump in the back seat! I'll drive you to Spielfeld-Strass. That is your destination, of course?'

'Of course.. Hartmann settled himself comfortably as though he had expected the two SS men to be waiting. He continued the conversation while Jaeger steered the car across the bumpy ground on to a nearby highway.

'Since when has the SS taken to tapping my phone calls? I used a phone at your headquarters. to avoid Gruber..

'It's by way of a compliment,' Jaeger replied. 'Your reputation for solving the insoluble is nation-wide.'

`You know something?' the Abwehr man commented. 'If we spend so much energy spying on each other, the Allies and Russia will have won this war before we realize what has happened.'

'You suspect Lindsay went over at Spielfeld-Strass?'

'Someone did,' Hartmann replied non-committally.

'We've just come from there...' Jaeger's tone changed, a bleak note entered his voice. 'It's a bloody terrible business that took place down there...'

'What do you expect? Someone tosses a match into an ammunition wagon.'

'It wasn't a match - it was a grenade,' Jaeger growled and his eyes met Hartmann's in the rear-view mirror. 'Waffen SS troops died in that holocaust...'

'A lot of people died when Goering carpet-bombed Belgrade...'