The Leader And The Damned (8 page)

Muller was beaten. After Lindsay finished speaking the Commandant and his unit left the room. The Englishman heard someone lock the door on the outside. He wiped the moisture off his palms onto his trousers. He was now gambling on something he had carefully not brought up during the confrontation.

The Commandant would worry about his presence, would be terribly anxious to pass on to the Wolf's Lair the responsibility for what action should be taken next. Once the signal about his arrival reached Rastenburg the Fuhrer would be curious about this strange development. And Lindsay was gambling everything on Hitler's reputed fabulous memory - that he would recall his meeting with the young pro-Nazi Englishman in Berlin before the war.

As he sat in a chair and felt waves of fatigue - reaction - sweeping over him, he began to worry about something else. His stay at AFHQ - Allied Forces Headquarters in the Central Mediterranean - had been brief and General Alexander had seemed a man who was the soul of discretion.

But there was a Russian military liaison mission with AFHQ and whatever other disaster might lie ahead one thing was vital. The Soviets must never catch a whisper of his existence, let alone the purpose of his mission.

Commandant Muller slept on the decision as to whether or not to inform the Wolf's Lair about the Berghof's enigmatic visitor. So it was near midday on 13 March when he personally 'phoned the HQ in East Prussia and asked to speak to the Fuhrer. As usual, Martin Bormann intercepted the call and insisted that Miller speak to him.

'You think this Englishman might have flown to see the Fuhrer on a peace mission?' Bormann asked after a few minutes.

'I can't be sure of anything, Reichsleiter,' Muller covered himself quickly. 'I felt you should know of his presence..

'Quite right! A good decision, Muller - to inform me. I like to know all that is going on - so I can keep the Fuhrer himself informed when the matter merits his attention. Continue to keep Lindsay under close guard.
Heil Hitler!
'

Inside the signals office at the Wolf's Lair Bormann replaced the receiver and took a quick decision. The Fuhrer was visiting Field Marshal von Kluge's front at Smolensk. A signal must be sent telling him about the Englishman.

Bormann composed the signal himself. This extraordinary event could have incalculable possibilities. The nephew of the Duke of Dunkeith! He could be bringing peace proposals - if he delayed reporting Lindsay's landing the Fuhrer would never forgive him.

After despatching the signal to Smolensk Bormann mentioned the news to Jodl who immediately told Keitel. Within hours the Wolfsschanze was buzzing with rumours and it was the main topic of conversation.

Hitler's response arrived almost by return. It was terse and to the point. Clearly he had remembered his pre-war meeting with the Englishman and knew exactly who he was.

Arrange immediately for Wing Commander Lindsay to fly direct to Wolfsschanze in the afternoon. Will interview him several hours after my return
.

The Fuhrer was already airborne, flying, back from Smolensk.

Chapter Seven

13 March 1943
. During most of 1943, Section V (counter-espionage) of the SIS occupied two country houses — Prae Wood and Glenalmond — outside St Albans. Twenty-nine-year-old Tim Whelby was stationed at Prae Wood.

Whelby always seemed older than his years, a quiet, generally popular man with his colleagues. They found his company relaxing, which encouraged tense men to talk to him, especially after a few drinks at the local village pub in the evenings. His dress was as casual as his manner — flannels and an old tweed jacket with elbow patches. He smoked a pipe, which seemed to add to his reputation for reliability.

On the evening of the 13th he was leaving the country house on his way to the pub when a Morris Minor pulled up in the drive with a jarring clash of gears. Behind the wheel sat Maurice Telford, a lean- faced man of forty. Whelby approached the vehicle and saw by the faint light from the dashboard that Telford looked positively haggard. He had also noted the gear clash. Normally Telford was a first-rate driver.

'Back from a trip, old chap?' Whelby enquired. 'Haven't seen you around for days..

'You can say that again! I'm bloody all in..'

'Join me for a drink at the local? Do you good before you get to bed.'

'That's all I want - to flop into bed.' Telford hesitated. He was strung-up after the long flight back from Algiers. Tim Whelby waited patiently, pipe stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He never
pushed
.

'Yes, I could do with a noggin. And some blotting paper. You wouldn't believe when I last ate..'

'Good man.' Whelby climbed into the front passenger seat and sagged. 'I could do with a bit of company...'

Telford was left with the impression he was conferring a favour on Whelby by agreeing to accompany him. There was no further conversation between the two men until Whelby led the way inside the deserted bar of The Stag's Head and gestured towards a seat in an oak-beamed corner.

`I'll get the drinks - the inglenook looks comfortable.'

Telford settled himself on the banquette. He stared when Whelby placed a glass before him. 'What's that?' he asked.

'Double Scotch - no point in doing things by halves. And eat up those sandwiches - they only had cheese. Here's to no more trips abroad. Cheers!'

'Who said anything about my going abroad?' asked Telford and then swallowed half the contents of the glass.

'Someone did. Can't remember who. Does it matter?'

'I suppose not.' Reeling with fatigue, Telford drank the rest of his Scotch. Its warming glow relaxed him. 'All the way to North Africa in a freezing bloody Liberator bomber - no seats, nothing except the floor and a sleeping-bag. I'm bruised all over. And all to nanny that lunatic Wing Commander, Ian Lindsay, now en route to meet the Fuhrer, for Christ's sake.'

'Sounds a bit stupid - couldn't he make it out there under his own steam?'

Whelby's manner was offhand as though making polite small talk. He summoned the barman and ordered another couple of rounds. Telford protested. 'My round, this one..'

'Then you shall pay, old chap. We'll both end up drunk - what else is there to do in this benighted neck of the woods?'

'I wasn't really his escort,' Telford explained. 'AFHQ had a secret report which they wanted delivered door-to-door. When I got back earlier this- evening I dropped it off at Ryder Street before driving out here. I was cover for Lindsay - two people landing at Algiers attract less attention than an individual..

He sipped cautiously at his Scotch, swallowing more with care. Whelby stood up to divest himself of his overcoat, took out his pipe and sucked at the stem without lighting it. They sat in silence for several minutes, soaking up the warmth from the crackling log fire. Telford had devoured his sandwiches. What with the food, the drink and the comfort he was nearly falling asleep.

'You're jo-jo-joking, of course,' Whelby said eventually. 'About this RAF type flying to see HitHit-Hitler?'

He had an unfortunate habit of stuttering. Muddled though he was with alcohol and fatigue, Telford remembered that people who stuttered were often caught by their affliction in moments of tension. The fact seemed important - significant...' Seconds later he found he couldn't recall what fact was - or might be - important. Then he remembered what Whelby had just said and he felt indignant. He spoke with great deliberation.

'Wing Commander Ian Lindsay of the RAF flew on to Malta for the express purpose of flying on alone to Germany to see the Fuhrer. And don't ask me why -
because I don't know!
'

'Anyway-you're just damned glad to be back home so let's have one for the road. My treat. Double Scotch for both of us..'

Telford waited for the barman to bring the fresh drinks and go away. He had experienced one of those rare and brief flashes of clear insight which can break through an alcoholic haze. People were coming into the bar so he lowered his voice. Whelby bent his head to catch what he was saying.

'I shouldn't really have told you any of this, Tim. I trust you, but one word and I'm out - maybe something even worse..

'Official Secrets Act, old chap,' Whelby confided with a lack of tact which startled Telford. 'We both. signed it,' Whelby continued, 'so we're both locked into the same gallows. Neither of us remembers a word and no one puts a noose round our necks..'

'Ghoulish, aren't we? Let's go home...'

Whelby went over to the bar to pay while Telford made a careful way.to the door and the waiting car outside. The landlord noticed Whelby seemed remarkably sober - he counted out the coins exactly.

Two days later Tim Whelby went on a forty-eight-hour visit to Ryder Street in London to discuss with his chief a problem of an overseas agent he suspected was feeding them with rubbish to justify his existence. At ten o'clock at night he was strolling down Jermyn Street alone.

The advantage of Jermyn Street is that it runs straight from end to end. This makes it difficult to follow a man secretly, especially at ten o'clock at night in wartime when there are few people about. Earlier Whelby had made a brief call from a telephone kiosk in Piccadilly underground station.

He paused to light his pipe, pretending to peer inside a shop window while he checked the street behind him. The shadowed canyon was deserted.

He resumed his stroll, drew alongside an entrance setback to another shop. With a swift sideways movement he stepped inside. One moment he was on the street; the next moment he vanished. Josef Savitsky, a short, heavy-set man wearing a dark overcoat and a soft hat spoke first.

'These emergency meetings are dangerous. I do hope what you have brought justifies this risk..

'Calm down. Either you have confidence in me or you don't..'

'Well, I am here...'

'So listen!' Whelby's normally diffident manner had changed. He stood more erect and there was an authoritative air about him as he spoke crisply and without a stutter. 'On 10 March a Wing Commander Ian Lindsay was flown to Allied Headquarters in Algiers. From there he was flying on alone to Germany to meet the Fuhrer

'You are certain of this?' There was an appalled note in the stocky man's voice as he spoke English with an accent. Whelby became even more abrupt.

'I'm not in the habit of giving reports I'm uncertain about. And don't ask me my source - which is totally reliable.'

'It is a peace mission, is it not?' the small, pudgy- faced man stated rather than queried.

'Don't play those tricks on me.' Whelby's tone became even sharper as he checked again the illuminated second hand of his watch. 'I have no idea why Lindsay has been sent. Better add to your report that he is the nephew of the Duke of Dunkeith. The Duke was one of the leading lights in the Anglo-German Fellowship before the war. I should know - I was a member, too. Time's up. I'm going...'

Before Savitsky could respond Whelby had strolled out and resumed his walk along the street, both hands thrust inside his overcoat pockets. At the nearby intersection he turned down Duke of York Street and walked rapidly into St James's Square. If anyone was following they would now hurry to find out his destination - which was Ryder Street. Whelby was circling an elaborate block.

Josef Savitsky remained quite still in the deep shadow of the doorway. The arrangement was he should give Whelby five minutes' grace before he emerged on to the street. When the time interval elapsed he began his marathon walk - a walk which took him across many open spaces where no one could shadow him without being seen. It was midnight before he arrived back at the Soviet Embassy.

The Russian - his official position was commercial attaché - went straight to his office where he locked the door, switched on the shaded desk light and then extracted the one-time codebook from a wall-safe. He was sweating as he composed his signal - although in March at that time of night the office was chilly.