He didn't take the first pressure on the trigger. Would they use bayonets to prod the sack pile?
A scraping noise – followed by an intake of breath. Someone had clambered up inside the truck. Lindsay felt moisture on the palm of the hand holding the pistol. Christa lay quite inert. What the hell must her thoughts be at this moment? Lindsay had never felt so helpless, a sensation he detested.
A clump of jackboots moving closer. Outside the sound of several voices. He could feel the tension inside Christa's body. The poor kid was petrified with terror. Sounds followed each other in rapid succession. The groaning rumbling of a half-track vehicle nearby. The now familiar rattle of the doom at the back being closed. 'Piss off, Hans, and get your lunch…' Gear change. Brake release. The truck was moving…
'Hans!' A bellowing shout. 'Drive straight through the next two checkpoints.' They were on their way.
Chapter Twenty
At the Berghof the Fuhrer rose at his normal late hour – 11 am – within minutes of Lindsay's and Christa's escape to Salzburg. Following his normal routine, he had gone to bed at 3 am.
His bedroom, which had a connecting link via a dressing room with Eva Braun's, was furnished in a Spartan fashion. The only decoration on the walls was an oil painting of his mother copied from an old photograph.
One of the most powerful men in the world, he shaved and dressed himself without any help from his valet, Krause. His garb was as ordinary as his late breakfast. He wore his brown tunic with the red swastika armband and trousers.
His breakfast – never varied – consisted of two cups of milk and up to ten pieces of zwieback, the German black rusk. He also consumed several pieces of semi-sweet chocolate which, he was convinced, gave him energy.
He ate alone and standing up, leafing through the latest reports of DNB, the German News Agency. Breakfast was finished in five minutes and then he was ready for the day. He opened the midday military conference attended by Bormann, Keitel, Jodl and other high officers with an unusual remark.
'I have the odd feeling that something disturbing has happened.'
'What might that be, mein Fuhrer?' purred Bormann.
'If I knew, I would have told you! Now let's get on..'
He adopted a characteristic pose while he listened to Jodl outlining the present position on the Eastern front, standing with both hands clasped over his lower abdomen. He said nothing, nodding his head occasionally as though in agreement. His silence had the effect of creating an atmosphere of tension.
At one moment he left the conference table over which was spread a large-scale map of Soviet Russia. He stood peering out of a window and then returned to the table. He had been gazing towards Salzburg.
Bormann went berserk when he heard the news. The military conference ended abruptly when Hitler glowered at his generals and left without a word. It was 1.30 pm. Since it was Sunday, the cook had prepared Lindsay's meal a few minutes early because he was anxious to finish and get away for a few hours. The tray was delivered to the Englishman's empty room at 1.25.
'God in Heaven, Jaeger!' Bormann fumed. 'What kind of security are you running. You plan a trap for Lindsay earlier, it flops – later in the morning he escapes…'
'I was handicapped…' the Colonel stood his ground.. by the fact that my detachment of guards was dispersed over a wide area to spring the trap. A trap you originally suggested..'
Bormann, the top of his head level with Jaeger's chest, paused in his tirade. He recognized a quagmire when his foot felt the surface subsiding. If the Fairer launched an investigation, this SS hyena would share the blame for the disaster – with himself.
'How could he have got away?' he demanded. 'May I say something?' requested Schmidt, who was standing two paces behind his chief.
Bormann stared at the thin-faced officer who wore rimless glasses. He disliked rimless glasses: they always reminded him of his bitter enemy, Himmler. But Schmidt had an analytical mind. They made a dangerous combination, this pair. Schmidt provided the intellect; Jaeger was the man of action. He nodded: permission to speak.
'There may, I regret, be further bad news,' Schmidt informed him. 'Fraulein Christa Lundt is known to have frequented the company of the Englishman. She, also, appears to be missing..'
'Two of them gone!'
'I believe, Schmidt continued, 'there is only one method of escape they could have used. The laundry truck which calls daily at eleven in the morning. The timing is right..'
'The checkpoints!' Bormann raved.
'The alert was cancelled after our plan for the Mercedes trap clearly had not worked,' Jaeger intervened.
Bormann noted the word our and suddenly calmed down. Schmidt took the opportunity to make a suggestion. Jaeger would be most grateful if he could divert Bormann's fury.
'The driver of the laundry truck may have information. Shall I call him on the phone?'
It took Schmidt only a few minutes to track down the driver at his home. He passed the phone over to the Reichsleiter who was careful not to panic Hans.
'What was that? An SS officer's uniform missing…. your depot is close to the railway… a couple was seen walking towards the station… an SS officer and a girl… the Munich express… hold on…' He looked at Schmidt. 'A railway timetable. Quickly. A train to Munich about 12.30…' He spoke a few more words to the driver before ending the call.
The meticulous Schmidt had already located a timetable and was leafing through the pages. He found the right place as Bormann gave the instructions to Jaeger.
'Get me the chief of Munich SS on the line. I will talk to him. An SS officer's uniform sent for cleaning in that truck has gone missing. Well, Schmidt?'
'If they were able to board the express – and the Lundt girl would probably manage that for them both – they departed Salzburg at 12.30 and arrive Munich at 1.30…'
Bormann glanced at a wall-clock. 1.39. 'Let's hope to God it arrives late – they usually do these days.'.
Jaeger was holding the receiver, one hand clamped over it while he spoke. 'I have the Munich SS chief on the line. His name is Mayr…'
'Bormann speaking. Mayr? Two fugitives from the Berghof… an Englishman and a German girl… descriptions… suspected they are aboard the 12.30 express from Salzburg arriving at Munich about this moment. The man may be wearing SS uniform… seal off the station…'
'The train is going to arrive late,' Christa commented. 'It was that hold-up at Rosenheim…'
Lindsay borrowed her hand-mirror to check his appearance. He was wearing the SS officer's uniform Christa had seen projecting from one of the linen sacks in the laundry truck. There was a blemish on the left sleeve. Otherwise it was in impeccable condition. It fitted him better than he had feared. A bit tight round the collar. He adjusted the peaked cap so it hid the top part of his face and glanced round the mail-van they had travelled inside from Salzburg. He checked his watch. 1.40 pm. Ten minutes late.
Moving slowly, the train began to rumble over points. He looked at Christa who stood close to the door with her suitcase. They'd agreed they must leave the coach as soon as it stopped. Earlier he had used his knife to try and manipulate the outside bolt open. On the verge of giving up, he felt the bolt elevate and clang as it dropped free.
'We're coming in now, Christa said calmly. 'There's a system of points where the tracks converge..'
'Get to the far end of the coach,' Lindsay ordered. 'I know this station – it's huge,' she protested. 'Do as you're bloody well told.'
She glowered and then obeyed his instruction. Lindsay took up a position to one side of the sliding door, the knife held in his right hand, the suitcase in his left. Slipping inside the mail van at Salzburg had been easy. Munich could be more dangerous.
Major Hugo Bruckner of the SS stood on the platform as the Salzburg express came in. A burly man of medium height, he took his duties very seriously. He had a particular detestation for army deserters – probably because he had served a long stint on the Russian front. They travelled about on trains. A favourite hiding-place
