The Leader And The Damned (22 page)

Major Hartmann appeared in the coach carrying a small case a few minutes later.

'Some manoeuvre is taking place with the SS. It would be helpful if I knew what was going on,' Hartmann observed amiably as he peeled the shell from a hard-boiled egg.

The coach was filling up with passengers arriving for breakfast. Jodl cracked a joke with the Abwehr officer as he passed their table. He was followed by Keitel who marched past stiff-necked without a glance to left or right.

'Please keep your voice down,' Bormann responded irritably and swivelled in his chair. The table behind was unoccupied, as were the tables opposite. Automatically everyone was steering clear of any proximity to Bormann.

'No one can overhear us,' Hartmann remarked. 'I am not a fool and it was patently obvious Gruber was conducting some secret exercise. Luckily no one was about to witness his antics..'

'His
antics
,' Bormann reacted sarcastically, 'involve an operation I ordered him to direct. The station at Salzburg is sealed off.'

The train was no longer moving and Hartmann used a napkin to wipe a portion of his own window clear of the opaque film. A deserted platform met his gaze. He made no comment but the lack of even one member of the station staff gave the place an unnatural atmosphere.

By order of the Fuhrer?' Hartmann enquired very solemnly.

'By
my
order. The Fuhrer is still sleeping. We all have breakfast - we take our time. It still means waking the Fuhrer early but at least he gets some sleep. Which is more than I get...'

'Eat your breakfast. It will soothe your nerves.'

Hartmann was looking down at his plate as he spoke so he did not apparently see the expression of fury on Bormann's face. This Abwehr officer was a strange type - far too independent for Bormann's liking. A pity that in his pocket he carried that piece of paper signed by Hitler giving him the same plenipotentiary powers as the Gestapo officer.

Bormann poured coffee from the pot with his left hand and sneaked a glance at his watch. Within an hour they would all start leaving the train. The trap would be sprung.

Lindsay, who had shared a compartment with Hartmann, was careful to keep his eyes closed when the German went along the corridor for breakfast. The wheels were still pounding their rhythm inside his head even though the train had stopped. He guessed they had arrived at Salzburg. The windows were steamed up with moisture which made it impossible to see out.

He had let Hartmann go on his own because at breakfast he wanted to be alone if possible, his attention undistracted by conversation. He was aware of a tightening of his stomach muscles, a sensation of general tension. Soon, Christa and himself would make their escape attempt.

He would have liked to use his sleeve to wipe a hole in the window but that might draw attention to himself if a guard were stationed on the platform. When the Fuhrer train arrived at its destination security would be tight, the slightest incident reported.

Taking his small suitcase from the rack, he went into the corridor and turned in the direction Hartmann had followed. It was strangely quiet and deserted. No sound of activity from the station outside. The compartments he passed were empty.

He walked slowly through several coaches and had the feeling he was moving inside a ghost train. Passing into a new coach, an aroma of freshly-made toast greeted him. This was the galley. Ahead, from an open doorway leading from the galley, a white-coated man emerged with a laden tray and hurried into the distance.

Lindsay paused alongside the doorway, peered inside. The galley was empty. Neatly arrayed inside an open drawer lay a row of sharp knives. He selected a strong, flat-bladed knife, eased up his trouser leg and thrust the knife inside his woollen sock.

Resuming his stroll along the corridor he heard the confused babel of many voices. Impossible yet to distinguish clear sentences. He pushed open a padded door and found himself inside a restaurant car so luxurious it reminded him of pictures of the prewar Orient Express. Christa Lundt sat by herself at a table at the far end of the coach.

Wearing a pair of glasses, she had papers spread all over the table. Her head tilted up briefly as he entered, then she went on eating with one hand while she scribbled away with the other. Her warning was clear.
Don't join me...
'

'Ah, Wing Commander, you will have to hurry unless you propose to fast. The Fuhrer is shortly due to leave the train. When he goes, we all go..'

The ironic tone would have identified the speaker for Lindsay. Hartmann. The German gestured towards an empty place facing him. The Englishman took a quick decision. Don't make an issue of anything at a critical moment. The trouble was it would place him a good half-car length from Christa. He sat down.

'The seat is warm. You have already had company,' he remarked.

'And for a flier, with no experience of intelligence, you are remarkably observant,' Hartmann commented genially while he concentrated on scooping out egg. He looked up, his grey eyes half-closed. 'Consider yourself honoured - a short time ago my breakfast companion was Reichsleiter Bormann.'

Again Lindsay warned himself this was a very clever German. In his first sentence he had probed. In his second he had expressed subtle irony in his opinion of the whole Nazi regime. Just where the hell did Major Gustav Hartmann stand?

'You must have enjoyed that,' Lindsay said.

'He is such a popular man. I suspect it is. his personal charm. Ah, here is your breakfast. Eat up - you haven't much time before we leave the train..'

Lindsay ate ravenously, his expression blank while his mind raced. Inwardly he cursed the Abwehr man's invitation to join him. The German had finished his breakfast and sat relaxed in his armchair. He lit his pipe and puffed quietly, looking round the restaurant car as the passengers collected luggage from the racks and left by the exit behind the Englishman.

Lindsay couldn't think of how to get rid of him. The second problem was he sat with his back to Christa, so he couldn't see what she was doing. Now the crucial moment was approaching he was racked with tension. He lifted his coffee cup, his hand steady as the proverbial rock.

He glanced casually over his shoulder as Jodl reached for a well-filled briefcase and moved off down the central corridor. At the far end Christa still sat at her table, but papers were no longer scattered over its surface. Most of them were now stuffed inside her own briefcase while she worked on a single file.

She looked up at the moment he turned round, cupped her chin in her hand and placed her index finger across her mouth. For a fraction of a second she met his gaze and then looked down at the file. She was ready to go.

'The Fuhrer must have gone to his Mercedes,' Hartmann remarked. 'That is why Bormann left so abruptly. He really believes that if he is not with the Fuhrer every waking moment, someone else might gain a little influence. You are going yourself now?'

'I think I'll have a word with Christa Lundt. When I arrived at the Wolf's Lair she was very considerate..'

'Of course..'

Hartmann half-stood and bowed, then resumed his seat. Lindsay was enormously relieved. But that had been a pretty feeble excuse. The trouble about fencing with an expert was all your energy went into maintaining an outward composure. The coach was empty except for Christa who slid her file into the case, snapped the catch shut and smiled warmly.

'Good morning, Wing Commander. I'm not sure I forgive you for not joining me for breakfast...'

Her voice was loud enough to carry down the coach to Hartmann and she was openly flirting for the Abwehr man's benefit. It was, Lindsay thought ruefully, a better performance than his own. He helped her on with her fur coat. She wasted no time donning her Russian-style fur hat, smiled up at him again and led the way out of the car.

'When we get on the platform follow me,' Christa warned, pausing in the empty corridor. 'Don't hesitate. Confidence is everything.'

He was astounded. Mentally he contrasted the girl he had found earlier in the night hanging out of the open doorway, the girl who had trembled and quivered with terror in his arms. They were about to embark on a course fraught with hazard - and she was as composed as a girl going out for the evening with her boyfriend. She was bolstering his morale...

They passed several doors open on to a deserted platform which Christa ignored. The lack of people. Something began to stir at the back of Lindsay's mind, something unsettling and profoundly disturbing.

She trotted on ahead of him. He noticed her stocking seams were perfectly straight. Absurd observation at a time like this! What was bothering him? An omission. The most difficult factor of all to locate. They walked on.

Like a house emptied of furniture, there is nothing more dreary than a long-distance train after arrival at its final destination. The deserted compartments were littered with abandoned newspapers and magazines. Ashtrays were crammed with cigarette stubs. The only sound was the steady click-clack of Christa's footsteps.

They reached the end of yet another coach. Christa glanced at the open door and stopped. She turned and looked up at Lindsay as he gazed at the silent platform. Her free left hand grasped his arm and squeezed it. Her voice was calm.

'This is it. That open door leading out of the station - we go through there. We keep moving. No sign of nerves. Ready?'

'Ready,' said Lindsay.

After being confined for so many hours aboard the train the platform seemed dreadfully exposed. Lindsay was conscious of the freshness of the air - a gentle current drifting down from snowbound peaks. The contrast with the smoke-polluted stuffiness of the train almost made him feel dizzy. He had a sensation of exhilaration. The open door yawned before them.

Christa paused briefly, glancing-to her left. Lindsay looked in the same direction and saw an open gate, the rooftops of waiting cars beyond. The main exit.
No sign of any guards
. He sucked in his breath. Christa had taken two steps forward.

'Let me escort you to your transport...'

Out of nowhere a hand grasped Christa's elbow and turned her in the direction of the main exit. Lindsay froze. His suitcase was in his left hand, leaving the right free - free to reach for the knife secreted inside his sock. The hand guiding Christa belonged to Hartmann. Cat-like in movement, he had simply materialized.

He smiled at the Englishman and stared hard at him, conveying a plea. Lindsay nodded and the trio walked along the platform to the main exit.
No sign of any guards
. That had been the odd omission the Englishman had registered in his subconscious. Had he been on his own he would have spotted the danger signal earlier. This, he reflected bitterly, was the price of having someone else to think about.

Beyond the main exit a uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door of a grey Mercedes. Hartmann made a gesture for Lindsay to follow Christa inside, the door was closed and the Abwehr officer got into the front passenger seat. By the Englishman's side Christa stared straight ahead, clutching her briefcase in her lap. Her knuckles were white with the strength of her grip.

Lindsay waited until the chauffeur had started the motor and the car was moving, before glancing quickly back through the rear window. Along the whole of the outside of the station was drawn up a file of SS guards, their backs to the wall, each man armed with a machine-pistol. Two stood on either side of the inviting doorway Christa had been heading for when Hartmann had appeared.

Chapter Seventeen

It was a Monday in Salzburg when the Fuhrer's motorcade left the station in a series of cars and headed for the Berghof. The air was crisp and invigorating and no fresh snow had fallen.

On the same Monday in Munich the snow was falling, coating the huge twin domes of the Frauenkirche with a mantle of white. At eleven in the morning precisely a road-sweeper was trudging past the great church, dragging one leg as he pushed in front of him a metal trash-bin mounted on wheels.

The bin wobbled because the original rubber tyres had long ago worn threadbare and even ersatz rubber was at a premium in the blockaded Third Reich. Now it had to trundle over the uneven cobbles on the relics of rusty metal wheels.

As the clock struck eleven, the old road-sweeper paused to rest and the snow continued falling, soft flakes drifting down. Across the open space high up in an attic, the agent called Paco scanned the front of the Frauenkirche with a pair of binoculars.

For a few seconds the lenses focused on the road-sweeper and the hidden watcher was satisfied the apparently lame man was positioned perfectly. The lenses moved on, hovering systematically on the few people who hurried, heads down, past the Frauenkirche.