dolls which opens to reveal inside a smaller replica of the original doll. You drive across a vast courtyard surrounded with medieval houses and ancient churches and the great entrance doors close behind you, sealing you off from the outside world. It is like travelling back through several centuries in time.
At five o'clock on the morning of 1 May Laventri Beria was in a foul humour as he sat in the rear of the black limousine – the only colour known to Soviet manufacturers of luxury cars. Seeing nothing of the inner-city, he tried to guess what emergency could have caused Stalin to summon him at this ungodly hour. Beria was getting very short of sleep.
The Generalissimo, fully-dressed in his simple uniform, freshly shaved, waited for the NKVD chief in his office in the modern block. He remained standing and made a gesture for Beria to sit down. This compensated for the Georgian's lack of height and put his visitor at a psychological disadvantage.
'That Englishman, Wing Commander Lindsay!' Stalin's voice was harsh, his manner venomous. He paced around the gloomy room for a few moments and Beria froze. Seldom had he seen the Georgian so disturbed. 'He is escaping to Yugoslavia..
He used the word escaping in a tone of withering sarcasm. 'Do you really think, Beria, it would be possible for a man to escape from Berchtesgaden without the Fuhrer's connivance?'
'You have clearly detected some conspiracy?' Beria suggested cautiously and then waited. He was accustomed to Stalin using him as a sounding-board for his own thoughts – especially if he was under great stress. The atmosphere reeked with tension and that mixture of odours old Western hands associate with Russia – human sweat, repellent Soviet soap and disinfectant.
'I have received another signal telling me not only that this Englishman is making for Yugoslavia but also – listen to this, comrade – that he will attempt to get in touch with spies dropped by parachute into that country by our so-called Allies. You see the next development, of course?'
'Perhaps you would enlighten me?' Beria requested.
'It is all a capitalist trick!' Stalin's face suddenly flushed red as the blood coloured his complexion. 'Lindsay is a peace emissary from Churchill! He has agreed terms with Hitler which he is carrying back to London. Hitler goes to great lengths to conceal this from me – by returning Lindsay by a devious route. He hides his real aims even from his closest associates. Can you imagine the atmosphere of intrigue and mistrust which must prevail at the Hitlerite headquarters – one man pitted against the other?'
Beria could imagine it only too well, but was careful not to say so. It described perfectly the regime in the Kremlin.
'Perhaps the problem is not insoluble?' he ventured.
'I have already taken steps to deal permanently with our Wing Commander,' Stalin informed him.
On 2 May in London it was raining, which- was no great surprise, a steady drizzle which could soak you in five minutes if you were outside. Tim Whelby was outside.
He wore an ordinary, drab raincoat and pretended to be reading a newspaper in the dreary surroundings of Charing Cross station. It was also chilly and he shivered as he checked his watch. 10 pm. Exactly. Another three minutes and he would go back to his flat.
'An urgent signal has arrived from Cossack…'
The words were spoken in a whisper. Savitsky had appeared out of nowhere. He stood a foot away from Whelby and shook water off his umbrella over the Englishman. He turned and apologized in a normal voice.
'That's all right. I was wet through anyway,' Whelby replied in a sarcastic tone. He lowered his voice. 'Do get on with it, the police patrol round here…'
'Our Wing Commander is heading for Yugoslavia. We understand he hopes to contact one of the Allied agents there…'
'He's on his own?' Whelby could not keep the surprise out of his question. By now he had pieced together a fairly complete picture of Lindsay. He knew for certain the RAF type spoke fluent German but no one had mentioned Serbo-Croat. The whole thing seemed highly unlikely. 'Are you sure about this information?' he asked.
'All my information is correct,' the Russian said with some irritation. 'And no, he is not alone. He linked up with a group of Allied agents. They got him out of Germany.'
'What do you expect me to do about it?' Whelby demanded sharply. 'My area is the Iberian peninsula. He was coming out via Switzerland and on to Spain. I might have done something then.'
'He must not reach Colonel Browne alive. Even if you have to intercept him personally. That comes from the top. I'm going…'
'I would if I were you,' Whelby replied with a trace of bitterness. For God's sake, did they imagine he was a trained assassin?
Marooned in southern Austria, Wing Commander Lindsay had no inkling of how many different enemy groups were closing in on him. On the German side there were Colonel Jaeger and his deputy, Schmidt; the Gestapo, led by Gruber and his more intelligent colleague, Willy Maisel; and Major Hartmann of the Abwehr.
Stalin was being, kept constantly in touch with the Englishman's progress. He was further doing everything in his power to bring about the Wing Commander's early liquidation.
Finally, there was the most trusted quarter – London – a haven Lindsay was desperately trying to reach. And here Tim Whelby was waiting with orders to ensure that the Wing Commander never survived to deliver his report on his visit to the Fuhrer.
At this stage all the leading characters in the Great Game were living in a state of chronic anxiety. Stalin was sweating it out in case the Allies made a separate deal with the Germans. Roger Masson was having nightmares because he could not rid himself of the dread that Hitler would invade Switzerland if he found out the activities of Lucy. Roessler was worrying because he seemed to have lost the confidence of his Swiss protectors.
The key to all this desperate insecurity was that in May 1943 the Germans still stood a good chance of winning the war. They had the resources, the men – and the generals – to destroy Soviet Russia.
In London Tim Whelby was only too aware of the military situation. His most recent encounter with Josef Savitsky had shaken him badly. Although he had earlier had the briefest of meetings with Lindsay he had hardly noticed the man. Others had been present – men whom it had seemed more important to observe and cultivate.
'During a recent trip to Madrid,' he remarked casually to Colonel Browne shortly after the Charing Cross meeting, 'I was told of a rumour we might be exploring the possibilities of a separate peace with Hitler if the terms were right…'
'Really?' Browne hardly appeared to be listening as he stooped over the papers on his desk. 'Who told you that?'
'Just an informant I'd sooner not name. I told him that the whole thing was a load of rubbish. How do these rumours start?'
'The way all rumours start I suppose…'
'The same informant told me.. Whelby invented the story while he went on talking.. that Lindsay was sent on a peace mission to Hitler and is now negotiating a treaty with him…'
'Really?' Colonel Browne's tone expressed sheer disbelief in what he was being told and he reached for another document.
Whelby dropped the subject. It would be dangerous to pursue the topic any further. The devil of it was he had still not obtained Browne's confidence so he would open up on Lindsay's real role.
When Paco and Lindsay – with Bora and Milk – reached the ancient town of Graz from the Sudbahnhof they did not linger. They arrived well after dark. Mingling with the hurrying crowd of other passengers, they walked out of the station without interference.
'No sign of security or police checks,' Lindsay commented.
'This is a backwoods place, remote from the war,' Paco replied as they continued on foot. 'No taxis here and the last bus left an hour ago. You can walk three kilometres. You've been sitting down for a whole day!'
'There's a different atmosphere.' He glanced behind and Bora was following with Milic in the distance. The moon shone brightly on cobbles worn by centuries of footfalls. 'It might be a country at peace, like Switzerland.'
'Don't get too rhapsodic,' she warned. 'We hide up here for about three weeks in case they're watching the frontier for us. Then we cross into Yugoslavia at the Spielfeld-Strass border post – and that may be no picnic.
'We're all going over together?'
