'Your wish is my command,' Gruber replied.
With Bormann you laid it on with a trowel. No display of respectful awe was too great. No man, Gruber had observed, was more conscious of his position than the Reichsleiter. They were alone in the luxuriously appointed coach.
The swivel armchairs were button-backed and made of leather. The Reichsleiter was almost swallowed up inside his chair. The top of his round head did not reach the top of the chair back. Seen from behind, the chair appeared empty. Bormann let his mind wander.
They would soon be inside The Berghof where the privacy was far greater than at the benighted Wolf's Lair. Married, with nine children, he had not bedded another girl for several weeks. He craved the haughty, distant Christa Lundt. He couldn't get the girl out of his mind. At the Berghof…
'I'm worried about this bloody English Wing Commander,' he told the Gestapo officer. 'And the Fuhrer is still convinced we have a Soviet spy among his entourage gnawing at our vitals…'
'I am continuing my investigation…' Gruber protested.
Bormann shut him up with an impatient gesture. 'I am holding you personally responsible for security at Salzburg when we leave the train and transfer to the motorcade to drive to Berchtesgaden. You will take command – including the SS detachment…' He leaned forward and stared at Gruber over the small pink-shaded lamp on the table laid for breakfast. 'You will be watching for anyone trying to leave the train without joining the motorcade..'
'With the complete SS detachment under my control I assure you, Reichsleiter, no one will escape…'
'Listen to me! I have not finished,' Bormann snapped. 'I want you to arrange it so the SS leave the train the moment it stops. Discreetly! They must conceal their presence. That way we shall trap anyone who tries to slip away. Understood?'
'Of course.' Gruber rose -hesitantly. 'With your permission I would like to begin the preparations at once…'
'The SS commander has been instructed…'
Bormann dismissed Gruber with a curt gesture, still staring out of the window. He was tired and would normally have been in bed. The Fuhrer had kept him up in his compartment talking before retiring, a routine Bormann had accustomed himself to duplicate..
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.
