“Thank you, kind sir. You—you have an appointment?” Her heart was back at its old tricks again.
“An evening of musical appreciation. Even the Gestapo has its finer side. We are going to listen to a nightingale sing.” He quickened his pace. “Sorry, Fraulein, but I've just remembered I've one or two reports to prepare.”
“I'm sorry if I've kept you from your work, Captain,” she said demurely. How much does he know, she thought wildly, how much does he suspect, what action has he suddenly decided to take? The von Brauchitschs of this world didn't just suddenly remember anything for the excellent reason that they never forgot it in the first place. “It's been most kind of you.”
“The pleasure was one-sided,” von Brauchitsch protested gallantly. “Mine and mine alone.” He stopped outside her bedroom door, took her hand in his and smiled. “Goodnight, my dear Maria. You really are the most charming girl.”
“Goodnight.” She returned smile for smile. “And thank you.”
“We really must get to know each other better,” von Brauchitsch said in farewell. He opened her door, bowed, kissed her hand, gently closed the door behind her and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Very much better, my dear Maria,” he said softly to himself. “Very much better indeed.”
Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen bent over their notebooks and scribbled furiously. At least the first two did: Christiansen had not yet recovered from the blow on the head and was making heavy weather of his writing. Kramer, who was standing apart with Smith and talking to him in low tones, looked at them in curiosity and with just a trace of uneasiness.
“They seem to be finding plenty of inspiration from somewhere,” he said carefully.
“The spectacle of an open grave is often thought-provoking,” Smith said cynically.
“I am afraid I don't quite follow.”
“Do you know what those men will be fifteen minutes from now?”
“I'm tired,” Kramer said. He sounded it. “Please don't play with words, Captain Schmidt.”
“Smith. In fifteen minutes they'll be dead. And they know it. They're fighting desperately for extra minutes to live: when you have as little time left as they have, even a minute is a prize snatched from eternity. Or the last despairing fling of the ruined gambler. Call it what you like.”
“You wax lyrical, Captain,” Kramer grumbled. He paced up and down for almost a minute, no longer troubling to watch the men at the table, then stopped and planted himself squarely in front of Smith. “All right,” he said wearily. “I've been on the spit long enough. I confess I'm baffled. Out with it. What in God's name is behind all this?”
“The simplicity of true genius, my dear Kramer. Admiral Rolland, the head of M.I.6. And he is a genius, make no mistake.”
“So he's a genius,” Kramer said impatiently. “Well?”
“Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen were caught three weeks ago. Now, as you are aware, they were concerned only with north-west Europe and were not known here.”
“By reputation, they were.”
“Yes, yes. But only that. Admiral Rolland reckoned that if three fully-briefed men impersonated our three captured men and were despatched here for a perfectly plausible reason, they would be persona grata of some note, honoured guests and completely accepted by you. And, of course, once they were accepted by you, they could operate inside the Schloss Adler with complete security and safety.”
“And?”
“Well, don't you see?” It was Smith's turn to be impatient. “Rolland knew that if General Carnaby—” he broke off and scowled across the room at Carnaby-Jones—“or that impostor masquerading as General Carnaby were taken here, his opposite number in the German Army would be sent to interrogate him.” Smith smiled. “Even in Britain they are aware that the prophet must go to the mountain, not the mountain to the prophet: the Army calls upon the Gestapo, not vice versa.”
“Go on, go on!”
“The Wehrmacht Chief of Staff, Reichsmarschall Julius Rosemeyer, would have been just as priceless to the Allies as General Carnaby to us.”
“The Reichsmarschall!” Kramer spoke in a shocked whisper, his eyes straying across the room to Rosemeyer. “Kidnap!”
“Your precious trusted agents there,” Smith said savagely. “And they would have got away with it.”
“My God! God in heaven! It's—it's diabolical!”
“Isn't it?” Smith said. “Isn't it just?”
Kramer left him abruptly, crossed the room, to Rosemeyer and sat down in the chair beside him. For perhaps two minutes they talked together in low tones, occasionally glancing in Smith's direction. Kramer it was, Smith could see, who did most of the talking, Rosemeyer who did all of the reacting. Kramer, Smith reflected, must be putting it across rather well: a printed diagram could have been no clearer than the successive expressions of curiosity, puzzlement, astonishment and, finally, shocked realisation that reflected on Rosemeyer's face. After some seconds' silence, both men rose to their feet and walked across to where Smith stood. The Reichsmarschall, Smith saw, was a little paler than normal, and when he spoke it required neither a sensitive ear nor imagination to detect a slight tremor in his voice.
He said: “This is an incredible story, Captain Smith, incredible. But inevitable. It must be. The only explanation that can cover all the facts, put all the pieces of the jig-saw together.” He attempted a smile. “To change the metaphor, I must say that it comes as a considerable shock to find that one is the missing key in a baffling code. I am eternally in your debt, Captain Smith.”
“Germany is eternally in your debt,” Kramer said. “You have done her a great service. We shall not forget this. I am sure the Fuhrer will personally wish to honour you with some mark of his esteem.”
“You are too kind, gentlemen,” Smith murmured. “To do my duty is reward enough.” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps our Fuhrer will give me two or three weeks' leave—the way I feel tonight my nerves aren't what they were. But if you gentlemen will excuse me—my present task is not yet completed.”
He moved away and walked slowly up and down, brandy glass in hand, behind the three men bent over the table. From time to time he glanced at one of the note-books and smiled in weary cynicism, neither the smile nor the significance of the smile going unremarked by anyone in the room except the three writing men. He stopped behind Thomas, shook his head in disbelief and said, “My God!”
“Let's finish it now!” Rosemeyer demanded impatiently.
“If you please, Reichsmarschall, let us play this charade out to the bitter end.”
“You have your reasons?”
“I most certainly have.”
Briskly, but not hurriedly, von Brauchitsch walked away from Mary's room, his footfalls echoing crisply on the stone-flagged corridor. Once round the corner of the corridor he broke into a run.
He reached the courtyard and ran across to the helicopter. There was no one there. Quickly he ran up a few steps and peered through the Perspex cupola of the cockpit. He reached ground again and hailed the nearest guard, who came stumbling across, a leashed Doberman trailing behind him.
“Quickly,” von Brauchitsch snapped. “Have you seen the pilot?”
“No, Herr Major,” the guard answered nervously. He was an elderly man, long past front-line service and held the Gestapo in great fear. “Not for a long time.”
“What do you mean by a long time?” von Brauchitsch demanded.
“I don't know. That's to say,” the guard added hastily, “half an hour. More. Three-quarters, I would say, Herr Major.”
“Damnation,” von Brauchitsch swore. “So long. Tell me, when the pilot is carrying out repairs is there a place near here he uses as a workshop?”
“Yes, sir.” The guard was eager to oblige with some positive information. “That door there, sir. The old grain store.”
“Is he in there now?”
“I don't know, Herr Major.”
“You should know,” von Brauchitsch said coldly. “It's your job to keep your eyes open. Well, just don't stand there, oaf! Go and find out!”
