references.”
Heidi said without any particular expression in her voice: “I don't think he'd let you down, Mary.”
“No,” Mary said dolefully. “I don't suppose he would.”
The big black Mercedes command car swept along the snow packed road that paralleled the Blau See, the windscreen wipers just coping with the thickly-swirling snow that rushed greyly back at the windscreen through powerful headlight beams. It was an expensive car and a very comfortable one, but neither Schaffer up front nor Smith in the rear seat experienced any degree of comfort whatsoever, either mental or physical. On the mental side there was the bitter prospect of the inevitable firing squad and the knowledge that their mission was over even before it had properly begun: on the physical side they were cramped in the middle of their seats, Schaffer flanked by driver and guard, Smith by Colonel Weissner and guard, and both Smith and Schaffer were suffering from pain in the lower ribs: the owners of the Schmeisser machine-pistols, the muzzles of which were grinding into the captives' sides, had no compunction about letting their presence be known.
They were now, Smith estimated, half-way between village and barracks. Another thirty seconds and they would be through the barrack gates. Thirty seconds. No more.
“Stop this car!” Smith's voice was cold, authoritative with an odd undertone of menace. “Immediately, do you hear? I must think.”
Colonel Weissner, startled, turned and stared at him. Smith ignored him completely. His face reflected an intensely frowning concentration, a thin-lipped anger barely under control, the face of a man to whom the thought of disobedience of his curt instruction was unthinkable: most certainly not the face of a man going to captivity and death. Weissner hesitated, but only fractionally. He gave an order and the big car began to slow.
“You oaf! You utter idiot!” Smith's tone, shaking with anger, was low and vicious, so low that only Weissner could hear it. “You've almost certainly ruined everything and, by God, if you have, Weissner, you'll be without a regiment tomorrow !”
The car pulled into the roadside and stopped. Ahead, the red tail lights of the command car in front vanished into a snow-filled darkness. Weissner said brusquely, but with a barely perceptible tremor of agitation in his voice: “What the devil are you talking about?”
“You knew about this American general, Carnaby?” Smith's face, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in anger, was within six inches of Weissner's. “How?” He almost spat the word out.
“I dined in the Schloss Adler last night. I—”
Smith looked at him in total incredulity.
“Colonel Paul Kramer told you? He actually talked to you about him?” Weissner nodded wordlessly.
“Admiral Canaris' Chief of Staff! And now everybody knows. God in heaven, heads will roll for this.” He screwed the heels of his palms into his eyes, lowered his hands wearily to his thighs, gazed ahead unseeingly and shook his head, very slowly. “This is too big, even for me.” He fished out his pass and handed it to Weissner, who examined it in the beam of a none too steady torch. “Back to the barracks at once! I must get through to Berlin immediately. My uncle will know what to do.”
“Your uncle?” By what seemed a great effort of will Weissner looked up from the pass he held in his hand: his voice was no steadier than the torch. “Heinrick Himmler?”
“Who do you think?” Smith snarled. “Mickey Mouse?” He dropped his voice to a low murmur. “I trust you never have the privilege of meeting him, Colonel Weissner.” He gave Weissner the benefit of a long and speculative look singularly lacking in any encouragement, then turned away and prodded the driver none too lightly in the back. “The barracks—and make it quick!”
The car moved off. Anything that the nephew of the dreaded Heinrich Himmler, Chief of the Gestapo, said was good enough for the driver.
“Smith turned to the guard by his side. Take that damned thing out of my ribs!”
Angrily, he snatched the gun away. The guard, who had also heard of Himmler, meekly yielded up the machine-pistol. One second later he was doubled up in helpless retching agony as the butt of the Schmeisser smashed into his stomach and another second later Colonel Weissner was pinned against the window of his Mercedes as the muzzle of the Schmeisser ground into his right ear.
Smith said: “If your men move, you die.”
“Okay.” Schaffer's calm voice from the front seat. “I have their guns.”
“Stop the car,” Smith ordered.
The car came to a halt. Through the windscreen Smith could see the lights of the barracks guard-room, now less than two hundred yards away. He gave Weissner a prod with the Schmeisser muzzle.
“Out!”
Weissner's face was a mask of chagrined rage but he was too experienced a soldier even to hesitate. He got out.
“Three paces from the car,” Smith said. “Face down in the snow. Hands clasped behind your head. Schaffer, your gun on your guard. Out beside the General, you.” This with his gun muzzle in the driver's neck.
Twenty seconds later, Schaffer at the wheel, they were on their way, leaving three men face downwards in the snow and the fourth, Smith's erstwhile guard, still doubled up in agony by the roadside.
“A creditable effort, young Himmler,” Schaffer said approvingly.
“I'll never be that lucky again,” Smith said soberly. “Take your time passing the barracks. We don't want any of the sentries getting the wrong idea.”
At a steady twenty miles an hour they passed the main gates and then the secondary gates, apparently, as far as Smith could see, without exciting any comment. Just behind the three-pointed star on the car's radiator flew a small triangular pennant, the Camp Commandant's personal standard, and no one, it was safe to assume, would question the comings and goings of Colonel Weissner.
For half a mile or so beyond the secondary gates the road ran northwards in a straight line with, on the left, a sheer hundred-foot cliff dropping down into the waters of the Blau See, and, to the right, a line of pines, not more than fifty yards wide, backing up against another vertical cliff-face which soared up until lost in the snow and the darkness.
At the end of the half-mile straight, the road ahead swept sharply to the right to follow an indentation in the Blau See's shore-line, a dangerous corner marked by white fencing which would normally have been conspicuous enough by night-time but which was at the moment all but invisible against the all enveloping background of snow. Schaffer braked for the corner. A thoughtful expression crossed his face and he applied still heavier pressure to the brake pedal and glanced at Smith.
“An excellent idea.” It was Smith's turn to be approving. “We'll make an agent out of you yet.”
The Mercedes stopped. Smith gathered up the Schmeissers and pistols they had taken from Weissner and his men and got out. Schaffer wound down the driver's window, released the hand-brake, engaged gear and jumped out as the car began to move. With his right arm through the window Schaffer walked and then, as the car began to gather speed, ran along beside the Mercedes, his hand on the steering wheel. Twenty feet from the cliff edge he gave a last steering correction, jerked the quadrant hand throttle wide open and leapt aside as the car accelerated. The wooden fence never had a chance. With a splintering crash barely audible above the roaring of the engine at maximum revs in first gear, the Mercedes went through the barrier as if it had been made of cardboard, shot out over the edge of the cliff and disappeared from sight.
Smith and Schaffer reached the safety of an unbroken stretch of fencing and peered down just in time to see the car, upside down now and its headlamps still blazing, strike the surface of the lake with an oddly flat explosive sound, like distant gunfire. A column of water and weirdly phosphorescent spray reached half-way up the cliff side. When it subsided, they could at once locate from an underwater luminescence the position of the sinking car: the headlamps were still burning. Smith and Schaffer looked at each other then Smith thoughtfully removed his peaked cap and sent it sailing over the edge. The strong gusting wind blew the cap in against the cliff face, but it tumbled on down and landed, inside up, on still surfacing bubbles iridescently glittering from the light now far below. Then the light went out.
“So who cares?” Schaffer straightened up from the fencing and shrugged his shoulders. “Wasn't our car. Back to the village, hey?”
“Not on your life,” Smith said emphatically. “And I mean that—literally. Come on. Other way.”
Clutching their recently acquired weapons, they ran round the corner in the direction in which the car had been travelling. They had covered less than seventy yards when they heard the sound of car engines and saw
