'There was a lot of activity beyond the perimeter. later that afternoon. I'm sure I heard tracked vehicles moving into the forest. Today the Fuhrer does arrive for his normal midday conference – and then curtails it. Something was wrong with the generator – the lights went dim and stayed that way. With the cloud overcast we could hardly see each other inside the Lagebaracke.'
'So, the power goes on the blink. There's a war on, in case you'd forgotten…'
'I'm not a complete fool, Wing Commander!'
'I'm an informal type. Call me Ian. May I call you Christa?'
'All right, Ian – but only when we're alone. Otherwise it must be Fraulein Lundt. Martin Bormann has tried to get me into bed a dozen times – he's succeeded with most of the other secretaries. You don't want to upset him – he's the most dangerous man at the Wolf's Lair. And he's in charge of all admin – including operation of the power supply.'
'He's the only one – who knows about the generator?'
'Well, no. Keitel and WI are both technically- minded and poke their noses into everything. Like most of us, they get so bored in this oasis of hell.' Her eyes held him. 'And we've got spy fever! The Fuhrer is convinced there's a Soviet agent inside the Wolf's Lair.' Her face went passive. 'Bormann has just arrived. He's coming to see you. I'm leaving…'
Lindsay lay on the bunk, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the heavily-reinforced roof and not seeing it. Bormann had shown him to his quarters, a small but in the cantonment inside Perimeter Two where Keitel and Jodl had their own private abodes – neither of which looked any more luxurious than the primitive place allocated to the Englishman.
He was amazed at the whole layout which reminded him vividly of descriptions he had read of prisoner-of-war camps. But he was recalling every word of his conversation with Christa Lundt. Could he trust one word she had said?
First there was the mysterious explosion which – according to Christa – had taken place overhead. Second, the business about the power dimming at the military conference was odd. Third there was something unreal about his brief meeting with Hitler. Then he remembered Christa's tale of a Soviet agent inside the Wolf's Lair. That really did destroy her whole credibility.
The heavily-muffled figure passed through the outermost checkpoint and vanished inside the mist-bound forest. It trod with almost feminine light-footedness, making hardly a sound on the crusted snow.
In the distance there was a sound like a rifle shot: The unreal silhouette didn't even pause. An ice-cased branch had snapped from a tree. It was a frequent occurrence. The figure moved on confidently along the path through the minefields. Half a kilometre from the checkpoint it stopped inside a clump of trees and bent down.
The radio transmitter was concealed in what looked like a hide for an animal, a pile of logs – of which there were many – half-covered with snow- covered undergrowth. Extracting a notebook from a pocket, the figure turned to the page with the already encoded message.
Sensitive fingers began tapping out the signal, fingers which first extended the telescopic aerial of the high- powered device. Nothing was hurried. Once the message had been sent, logs were replaced in position. A hand reached up and shook a branch above the 'hide', bringing down a fresh fall of snow to conceal all signs of disturbance.
The muffled figure then began its slow return to the checkpoint, taking its time. A number of personnel inside the Wolf's Lair were in the habit of taking walks beyond the perimeter – anything to escape for a short time the claustrophobic atmosphere which pervaded the headquarters.
Half an hour later Ian Lindsay put on a. military greatcoat Guensche had loaned him and left his but to stretch his legs. The mist – it was almost dark – had invaded the Wolf's Lair and dirty grey swirls drifted past his face. Without warning a muffled figure loomed in front of him.
Field Marshal Keitel raised his baton in a weary gesture and walked on across the compound to his quarters. He had not exchanged a word. It was the kind of evening when no one liked the world.
Part Two
The Lucy Ring: Roessler
Chapter Ten
Lucerne, Switzerland. It was a crisp, cold night in the ancient Swiss town. Few people walked the snowbound cobbled streets in the dark silence. Closeted in his apartment on the top floor of an old building, Rudolf Roessler took off his headphones and gazed at the pad recording the coded signal he had just received from Germany. He sat half inside a cupboard in front of a lowered panel which concealed his powerful transceiver.
Middle-aged, a man you could pass on the street a hundred times without realizing you had passed anyone, he peered through thick-lensed spectacles at the signal he would shortly re-transmit to Moscow. Even in its present form – Swiss cryptographers had long ago broken the code – he knew he was looking at the current order of battle of the German Army on the Eastern front.
The mystery – the solution to which Roessler could never even have guessed – was the identity of Woodpecker, the agent so close to the summit of the Nazi hierarchy he could supply regularly the German order of battle. Roessler never ceased to wonder about this incredible source.
Roessler himself had mysterious aspects. For one thing he was a German. Prior to 1933 he had been a theatrical publisher in Berlin and the editor of an anti- Nazi paper. During those abandoned days when the German capital was the fleshpot of Europe he had built up the contacts which – years later – led to the founding of the most successful spy network of World War Two. The Lucy Ring.
'Anna, I could do with a cup of hot coffee before I re-transmit to Moscow…'
He turned in his swivel chair and his wife smiled and nodded as she reached for the container of coffee. An attractive, dark-haired woman of forty, she was slim and brisk and enormously efficient. She talked as she bent over the stove.
'You work too hard, you know. All this work we do must put a tremendous strain on you…'
'Anna, we may well be making history. We could even change the whole course of the war – if only they will, please God, in Moscow, listen to us!'
'Either they will or they won't,' Anna replied. 'You can only do your best. Come and sit down at the table while you drink your coffee,' she scolded. 'Life is complicated enough as it is…'
It was indeed complicated. In 1933 Roessler fled to Switzerland, one jump ahead of arrest when Hitler came to power. As war came close he struck a bargain with Nachrichten-Dienst, the Swiss Military Information Service. In return for being allowed to operate his transceiver he would supply the Swiss with the signals obtained from his old contacts in Berlin.
One of these men had approached Roessler just before he left Germany. Roessler never knew the identity of this particular contact, although he had felt sure he was talking to a Communist.
'There will be a war,' the man had said. 'When it comes you'll receive radio signals from Woodpecker. He is so high up you would never believe it. A powerful transceiver will be smuggled across the Swiss border to you. I shall see you are given all the codes and technical data re radio transmission. And the name of a Swiss who will train you in the operation of the set..'
In 1943, the mild-mannered Roessler, who a decade earlier looked forward to a life spent as a theatrical publisher, found himself the controller of the world's most important spy network. The original contact in Berlin had given him one more instruction.
'You need a code-name to protect your real identity. We have decided to call you Lucy…'
In his office inside the Kremlin, Stalin was holding a decoded message in his hand as he stood by his desk. Two other men stood in front of him, respectfully silent.
One was Lavrenti Beria, a pallid-faced man wearing pince-nez, the head of the NKVD, the Ministry of State Security, later to become the KGB. The other visitor was General Zhukov, wide-shouldered and with a large, muscular body. Stalin handed the signal first to Beria, retired behind his desk, leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe which had a bent stem. From beneath bushy brows his yellowish eyes watched Beria as he spoke in his Georgian accent.
