Whelby swallowed half his Scotch and observed that the Russian watched his action with disapproval. To hell with this pedant of a messenger boy. He swallowed some more and placed the glass on the table.
'Lindsay has crossed the border into Yugoslavia.' 'The Germans aren't doing very well, are they?'
Whelby commented. 'When did this happen?' 'Earlier yesterday. In the morning.'
Whelby was badly shaken. He grasped his glass casually and deliberately held on to it without drinking. It was important never to display any signs of agitation in Savitsky's presence. Whelby had no doubt regular reports assessing his ability and potential as a Soviet agent were despatched to Moscow.
But how the hell had this information reached the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens so swiftly? There had to exist a truly extraordinary system of communication. It began to look as though the system originated inside Germany itself.
'So where do you think he's heading for now?' Whelby asked.
'It's obvious – one of the Allied military missions working with the guerrillas. He could be air-lifted out any time now. Much more speedily than we ever anticipated. You have to stop him ever reporting back to London..
'Thanks a bundle,' Whelby said laconically. 'I beg your pardon? What does that mean?' 'You've told me all this before – about the need for stopping him. A reason would help…'
'You have your instruction. The reason behind an instruction is not your concern. Surely your people must have received a communication from Lindsay about this latest news..'
'If they have, they're not telling me.'
'You, must make enquiries – discreetly, understand?'
'That's reassuring,' Whelby said quietly. 'You remember, I hope, that my area is Spain and Portugal. If you check with an atlas when you get back you'll find they're some distance from Yugoslavia.'
'You make it sound difficult, so when you solve the problem it will make you seem so much more clever.'
'That's right,' said Whelby. 'You've got it in one.'
It was well after dark when the masked lamps of the engine hauling the train from Spielfeld-Strass approached the platform of Maribor station. Hartmann, pleading a need for fresh air, had left Maisel in the compartment while he went into the the corridor, lowered a window and peered out.
His pipe – his trademark – was in his pocket. On his head he wore an old, peaked cloth cap not unlike those worn by so many middle-aged workers in Yugoslavia. Unless viewed very close up, not even his friends would have recognized Major Gustav Hartmann of the Abwehr.
He had excellent night vision which was rapidly adjusting to the darkness as the train chugged slowly towards the station. There were a lot of people waiting to board the train. Hartmann was recalling in photographic detail the descriptions he had coaxed out of the wounded Captain Brunner, descriptions of the girl and the man whose papers he had found out of order just before 'the world blew up'.
On the platform at the far end near the point where the engine would pull up Paco and Lindsay wearily watched the oncoming train. Earlier they had risked leaving the station to get something to eat and drink at a small cafe in a back street – the bill was outrageous because the proprietor produced meat which he had obtained on the black market.
'I'll sleep all the way to Zagreb,' Paco said. 'You'll lend me your shoulder for a pillow, won't you?'
'We'll take it in turns,' Lindsay snapped. 'One of us has to stay awake all the time in case of an emergency.'
'I know! I know! There's a whole Panzer division aboard and their sole job is to find us.' She paused after the outburst which was so unusual. 'Sorry, I'm dog-tired. It's the responsibility. You're right, of course. We'll agree some kind of roster. Oh, Jesus, Lindsay – you are right!'
They could see the engine-cab as it glided past – the armed troops inside. And then the coal-tender with the machine-gun mounted on top. What they did not see was the head of a man poked out of a window in a rear coach, a man wearing a cloth cap with a peak who was staring at them.
Colonel Browne was working late in his office at Ryder Street when Whelby arrived back on the pretence of collecting papers he had forgotten. It was becoming a habit for Browne to catch up on his own paperwork when everyone had left the building.
Daytime hours were occupied more and more with futile conferences as the momentum of the war built up. Browne blamed the Americans – it seemed they could only communicate verbally. He laid down his pen and stretched his aching limbs.
'Take a seat, Whelby. Care for a drink?'
'I've just had a couple – at a pub in Tottenham Court Road. I was chatting to a Flying Officer Lindsay – no relation to the Wing Commander who trotted off to Berchtesgaden, I suppose?'
'Doubt it. Our Lindsay is an only child.'
'Any word from him yet since he took off?'
Tired out, Browne hesitated, and Whelby noted the brief pause. 'Not a dicky bird,' the Colonel replied curtly. 'We'll hear in due course…'
'Must be worrying – the waiting,' Whelby probed. 'No more than a dozen other problems.'
Whelby was in a cleft stick. He knew that the command structure in the Mediterranean had recently been changed. Allied Forces HQ under Eisenhower and Alexander in Algiers controlled operations in North Africa, including Monty's Eighth Army which was now involved in the final stages of the Tunisian campaign.
But subversive operations in the Balkans, including Greece and Yugoslavia, were directed by the Middle East Command with GHQ in Cairo. Whelby could see no way of introducing Cairo into the conversation because he was not supposed to know where Lindsay was. He'd just have to wait: events had a way of playing into his hands.
'Something on your mind?' Browne asked. 'Yes, getting to bed. Good night, sir.'
Bormann had talked at the Wolf's Lair about Lindsay's suspected escape into Yugoslavia. The information reached him via two sources. When Hartmann had temporarily ditched Willy Maisel at Graz Airport the Gestapo official immediately phoned Gruber in Vienna.
'Hartmann, the wily bastard, gave me the slip. He's flying on his own, in a Fiesler-Storch he had standing by, to Spielfeld-Strass to investigate an incident. He thinks Lindsay crossed the border today…'
'What incident?' Gruber demanded sharply. 'What evidence has he to support this crazy theory?'
Gruber knew Martin Bormann, knew how cautiously the Reichsleiter proceeded. He would need convincing evidence of what could so easily be a rumour. God knew there had been enough false sightings of the Englishman.
And Bormann always demanded evidence because that was how the Fuhrer's mind worked. How many times had he heard Hitler rave at generals who presented him with bad news and then backed down on cross- examination.
'There was a guerrilla attack,' Maisel explained and told him the whole story. 'Hartmann linked it with the Frauenkirche… stick grenades and smoke bombs… the same technique…
Gruber was sufficiently convinced to decide it would be dangerous not to forward this report to Bormann. After all, he was now able to emphasize he was merely passing on information which had originated from Willy Maisel. If there was any backlash it would be Maisel at whom the finger could be pointed.
He at once phoned Bormann, who listened in silence. Gruber knew the Reichsleiter was working out all the angles as to how this new development might affect his position.
'I will pass on your message to the Fuhrer,' Bormann decided, careful not to reveal he had already heard direct from Hartmann. 'The incident at Spielfeld-Strass is not, of course, conclusive.'
'It comes from Maisel,' Gruber stressed. 'And he bases what he told me on a conversation with another source – Major Gustav Hartmann.'
'Ah, the Abwehr! Who trusts that nest of traitors any more!'
Apparently the Fuhrer did. When Bormann reported the news to Hitler he called for a large-scale map of Southern Europe which he personally spread out over the large table in the conference room. His finger traced a route from Munich to Vienna via Salzburg.
'It makes sense,' he pronounced. 'Bormann, you sealed off all routes from Munich to Switzerland? Yes?' 'It was the obvious escape route.'
'And the group which is endeavouring to smuggle Lindsay home again is professional…'
'We have no evidence of that. Bormann objected.
Hitler exploded. 'You have forgotten what happened at the Frauenkirche? Only professionals could have
