“Excellent, Horst, really good work. First opportunity I have I’ll contact McFarlane to find out if any of his contacts have knowledge of a woman in a very senior position in the Society. For my part, I’ve just had a very bizarre meeting with Herr Hartmann. I don’t know whether I’m punched, bored or countersunk. I’ll tell you about it later. However, what is important is he told me that the person we are meeting tomorrow is Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny.”
The look of contempt on Manteufel’s face was not lost on Kelly. “I take it you’re not a fan?”
“The man is a self-publicist and a poseur. He allowed the Fallschirmjäger to rescue Mussolini, then took all of the credit for himself and his SS cronies. During operation Greif in 1944, he ordered his men behind enemy lines wearing British and US uniforms. Those captured were shot as spies. Of course, he was careful not to get himself into a danger area. No, in answer to your question, I don’t have a lot of time for him.”
“Well, for God’s sake don’t show it when you meet him, we don’t want to antagonise him. Try to be Mister ‘I’m impressed’—he may be able to provide us with the last link to Müller!”
Manteufel smiled. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, Herr Colonel.”
It was Kelly’s turn to smile. “This is it, Horst, the last leg! We’ll see what Skorzeny gives us, but even if we draw a blank, we’re finished. We’ll contrive a way out and go home! If nothing else, we have pinned down Müller to a farm in southern Bavaria. It would be nice to know which farm and it would be even nicer to know why!”
The slow, stop-start progress of the vehicle and the noise around them suggested to Kelly that they were again passing through heavy traffic. They had been travelling for about four hours, so this must be Salzburg.
After a while, the driver turned sharp left then executed a tight arc before reversing, coming to a halt and killing the engine. They had arrived. After scrambling from the vehicle, the two were met by the driver.
“This is the end of the line for you good people. I hope it hasn’t been too uncomfortable.”
“It’s been fine. Thank you for all your help. Is that you finished now?” asked Manteufel.
“No, I have a fairly big drop here, then it’s off to Linz for another drop, and finally Vienna.”
“We’ll give you a hand to offload,” volunteered Kelly.
“Thank you, that’s truly kind. You see this despatch number in the corner of the label? Anything with that number comes off here. Stack them in the corner there,” he said, indicating a space just to the side of the door. “They are all at the back so it shouldn’t be difficult.”
In a few moments, the three had unloaded the consignment, stacking it neatly in the corner. After a final check that the right number had been offloaded, the driver said his goodbyes and wished them well with a final handshake. Then, with a crashing of doors, a rattling of bolts and locks, a roar of the engine and a final wave from the window, the Tatra moved out of the compound and headed towards Linz.
Kelly and Manteufel found a bench inside the warehouse and were just making themselves comfortable when a man entered. “The car shouldn’t be long,” he explained. “It’s late. It was supposed to be here by now, but it won’t be long.”
It was, in fact, a good thirty minutes before a Fiat 1400 turned into the compound and pulled up before the doors. Two large men emerged, both in mid-grey suits with black wavy hair. Archetypal Italian, thought Kelly.
“Please, who is Novak?” asked the man who had been the driver, in bad German.
“I am Novak,” answered Kelly, approaching.
“Please, you can put your hands up like this,” said the Italian spokesman, fitting the action to the word by raising his hands in the air.
Kelly complied and the Italian commenced to frisk him for weapons. “You have gun, yes?”
“No, I have no gun.”
“Good. Please, you sit in back of car.” He then approached Manteufel, who started to raise his hands. “No! Please you do not put hands up. You have gun?”
“Yes, of course,” said Manteufel easing his Luger out of the back of his trousers and showing it to the Italian.
“Good! You keep it ready, yes?”
Manteufel smiled. “Yes, it’s always ready,” he assured the Italian.
Whilst Horst and Kelly settled in the back of the car, the two escorts climbed into the front seats, and with a screeching of tyres they accelerated out of the compound and along a B road. They sped down the road, gradually leaving the industrial area behind and entering an upmarket residential district. Many of the properties were detached in their own grounds, but many had perhaps seen more affluent times. They turned into one of the better properties, the car crunching over the gravel that made up the approach road, and drove around the side of the large house, stopping near a rear entrance.
Tradesman’s entrance for me, thought Kelly as he followed the two Italians into the building, with Manteufel bringing up the rear. After ascending a rather rickety wooden staircase, they emerged onto a spacious landing, luxuriously appointed with a rich, thick carpet on the floor and expensive-looking hangings decorating the walls.
“Wait here,” said one of the Italians as he made his way down one of the opposing corridors, stopping at the first door and tapping gently.
A very loud
