mouth of a shadowed cave when, from underneath her jacket, she produced a Luger pistol and pointed it at Hartmann.
'If you make any attempt to signal our whereabouts to your compatriots I'll shoot you…'
'Shoot me!'
Hartmann began shaking with laughter. Lindsay thought the Abwehr officer's nerve had broken, that the strain had proved too much. The German extended a hand towards the pistol, suddenly stern.
'Who do you think got you off that hilltop? Who realized what was coming? Who just – but only just – saved you from the bombardment? Give me that gun immediately.'
He grasped the barrel, gently pulling it from Paco's grasp. He took hold of it by the butt and with a quick movement placed the end of the muzzle against Reader's skull.
'Hand over the sten to Lindsay. You've got three seconds and I've started counting… two…'
Reader surrendered the sten. The two men stared at each other. Hartmann gestured into the recesses of the cave. Reader shrugged, walked slowly into the shadows. Hartmann gestured again, this time to Lindsay.
'Go after him. Keep an eye' on him. You have the sten…'
'Why?' asked Paco.
'Maybe because his enemy is down there. We shall survive only if we hide. There is more than the motorcyclists…'
For the first time since they had started their brutal, aching climb Paco heard another, more sinister sound approaching above the erratic roar of the oncoming motorcycles. The power and the grind of rumbling caterpillars A tank? A half-track?
There was something macabre, almost comic, about the antics of the motorcycles. They kept dashing backwards and forwards like frantic ants, never in one place for more than a second. Darting over a short distance, screeching round on their wheels, skidding, driving back the way they had just come. Then repeating the same process. And all the time the sound of the rumbling caterpillar tracks came closer.
'Get back from the edge,' Hartmann commanded.
He grabbed her forearm and hauled her closer to the mouth of the cave as he spoke. Just in time. The soldiers riding in the side-cars began scouring the lower slopes with a ferocious barrage of machine pistol fire. They had, spotted the fleeing Partisans on the higher slopes.
A man screamed, screamed as the Germans had screamed in the other gorge. The sombre thought crossed Lindsay's mind that the sounds had been the same. A body, arms and legs cartwheeling, fell through the air beyond the cave to land on the rocks a few hundred metres below.
The rattle of machine-pistol fire continued. Random shooting across the whole slope. The hail of fire became insistent. But this was only the hors d'oeuvres. Colonel Jaeger, remembering the other gorge, was about to serve up the main course.
On the same day it was very quiet and the street was deserted as the little, middle-aged man with glasses locked the outer door of the offices of Vita Nova Verlag in Lucerne. To clear up a backlog he had been working late and now he crossed the street to the tram stop and waited patiently.
The weather was chilly and damp and he wore his overcoat and soft hat as he checked his watch and peered along the street in the direction the tram would appear. The quiet, the lack of pedestrians was deceptive.
'There he is,' a man concealed in a shop doorway remarked to his companion, another ordinary-looking civilian. 'Every day he follows the same routine, the same route home. Even if he is late today. He must be crazy.'
'He never varies the route? You are sure of that?' the taller man asked sharply.
'We have watched him for a week now. He gives no sign of being a professional…'
'You are sure that is Rudolf Roessler? A man like that could have a double. We all have a double. Did I tell you once…'
'His tram is coming.' The first hint of excitement appeared in the voice of the smaller man. 'Be ready. The other teams are in position?'
'Of course.'
The tram rumbled wearily towards the stop. It had started to rain, a gentle, wetting drizzle like a sea-mist drifting in off the lake. Roessler absent-mindedly fastened the top button of his coat, a pointless action since in a moment he would be inside the tram. It stopped, its sides gleaming with globules of moisture, and Roessler climbed aboard. As was his habit he chose a seat at the back. A woman hurried aboard and sat beside him, much to the annoyance of Roessler who preferred to be alone. He glanced furtively sideways. 'Anna…!'
'Shush! Keep your voice down. You are being followed. You see those two men sitting in the seat near the exit door, the ones who came aboard at your stop…'
Roessler was bewildered. First the unprecedented appearance of his wife who had never before met him on his way home. Now this absurdly melodramatic story… To get his bearings he performed an everyday action, taking off his rain-smeared glasses to clean them. He was going to use the corner of his handkerchief when his wife took them from him.
'Give them to me. You'll smear them, make them worse…'
Without his glasses the world was a blur. He stared at the vague silhouettes of the backs of the two men. He had not even noticed them boarding the tram. His wife had taken a tissue from her handbag to clean the glasses.
'What is happening?' he asked. 'I don't understand – we are in Switzerland. We are safe…'
'We thought we were safe,' Anna corrected him.
She handed back the glasses. With a sense of relief he put them on and the world came back into focus. Droplets of rain ran down the windows of the tram. He followed one droplet as it zigzagged an irregular course. He was frightened.
'What are you talking about?' he asked. 'You said earlier I was being followed. By whom?'
His coat smelt of damp wool. He should have brought a raincoat instead. But earlier in the day…
'I don't know,' Anna replied, keeping her voice low. 'The first thing I noticed several days ago was the men following you to work in the morning. I was watching from behind the net curtains as you went off to catch your tram. Two men had been standing on the opposite pavement, apparently talking to each other. It was raining heavily. Neither had an umbrella and they were getting soaked. It seemed odd…'
'You're imagining all this,' he muttered.
'Wait till I've finished! Then tell me I'm imagining it. I went on watching. You crossed the street and you were no more than one hundred metres away when they began to follow you. As you disappeared round a corner they broke into a trot to catch up…'
'The same men as those sitting in that seat?'
He was beginning to believe her. Ever since they had fled from Germany before the war, he had felt secure once they crossed the Swiss border. He didn't want to believe her.
'Not the same men. A different pair…'
'There you are!' He relaxed, sagged against the back of the seat. 'It's all a coincidence. I told you it was your imagination…'
'Men are watching our apartment by day and night…'
Oh, God! They sat there as the tram stopped, the doors opened, people got off, a man got on, the doors closed, they were off again. The two men Anna had pointed out remained in their seat, exchanging not a word. Roessler glanced up at the angled mirror to help passengers board and alight. One of the men in the seat was staring at him. Roessler looked away. It was becoming a nightmare.
'We're there,' said Anna. 'Get off as though. nothing is wrong. Don't look at the men. Don't trip on the steps…'
They had reached the suburb of Wesemlin where they rented the small apartment they had taken in 1933. Anna is so strong, he thought. She walked to the exit with a firm tread, paused for him to catch her up, then stepped down into the street. On the pavement, in the reflection from his freshly-cleaned glasses, he saw the two men hurry down the steps seconds before the automatic doors closed. It was one of the worst moments of his life.
