by Colin Forbes
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kranz glance at the ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, the ring embossed with the swastika. It seemed the right psychological moment to rush Kranz into a fresh
decision which would delay discovery of his identity.
'When we get there give me a decent room where I can clean up and prepare myself before I see the Fuhrer. And it must have a safe where I can store secret papers..
`But the Fuhrer is at the Wolfsschanze; Kranz replied.
Lindsay swore inwardly as he sensed the twist of Kranz's head and heard the note of suspicion in his voice. First blunder - unavoidable but an unguarded remark which could betray him now. He responded instantly, still staring ahead, growling his reply.
'Kranz! Security - there is a driver with us in case you have overlooked that little fact..'
'I don't understand..'
Suspicion was giving way to bewilderment and Lindsay pressed his advantage home. He dropped his voice, without a glance towards Kranz, his expression bleak.
'He is expected,' he whispered. 'You know he never gives out advance warning of his intended movements - to foil any assassination attempt. Really, Kranz, I hardly like to hazard his reaction if I reported this conversation to him..'
'You have my full cooperation..'
Lindsay was unyielding. 'You are between the devil and the Lord none of us believes in. Russia or promotion stares you in the face. Don't forget that private room I asked for. Not a word to the Commandant concerning my arrival. And, preferably, not another word from you until I have rested.'
They could see the famous and vast picture window behind the terrace which had so impressed pre-war visitors to the Berghof. It was misted over with condensation which pleased Lindsay. Inside the place there would be terrible danger - but there would, also, thank God, be warmth. He was chilled to the bone - with the fatigue from the flight, lack of sleep, and, he admitted to himself, the most appalling drain on his nerves from the situation he had faced since landing in enemy territory.
Lindsay opened the door leading from his room inside the Berghof quietly after first checking the door frame. No alarm system to warn when the door opened. He peered out into an empty corridor. No guard outside. He had - by force of personality - frightened Kranz into accepting his presence.
How long that state of affairs would last was anyone's guess and he needed to explore the layout of the place before the inevitable unmasking of his true identity. Closing the door behind him, he padded silently along the polished woodblock floor. At the end a staircase led down to the next floor. He paused.
The whole place seemed deserted - not at all what he had anticipated. Then he heard the faint sound of a voice, a familiar voice. He moved down the carpeted staircase a step at a time. In the hall below a heavy wooden door was almost closed. The voice came from inside the room beyond.
As he approached the hall the voice became more distinct. Lindsay, puzzled, paused again. Kranz had quite positively told him the Fuhrer was at the Wolfsschanze and the Englishman was certain he had spoken the truth. So what - who - was behind that door?
The lower hallway was equally deserted, the heavy door open only a few inches - as though someone had omitted to close it properly. He recognized the voice now - there was only one man in the world who ranted and thundered in German in that fashion.
Cautiously, he gripped the handle and very slowly opened it a few more inches. He froze, stupefied at the spectacle inside. An assortment of large cheval mirrors stood arranged in a large circle. Inside the circle Adolf Hitler stood gesticulating, his forelock of hair drooped as he went on practising his speech and staring into the mirrors.
Lindsay watched, fascinated, then a wrinkle of doubt appeared on his ample forehead. His memory for people was encyclopaedic and highly visual, a memory finely honed by his experience as an actor. There was something horrific and yet unreal about the six Hitlers he could see from various angles.
Not daring to risk a second movement of the door he left it at the point he had pushed it open and, light-footed, skipped back up the staircase. The girl appeared as he was re-entering his room.
'I'm Eva Braun. And who might you be?'
The girl patted her fair hair and studied Lindsay frankly. It occurred to him that she was a bit of a flirt. He had performed another stage trick - swivelling on his heel in the doorway to his room as though just leaving rather than re-entering it. Not too intelligent, he summed her up, but possessed of a certain native shrewdness where men were concerned.
'I'm the Magic Man,' he responded humorously. 'I've just flown in to see the Fuhrer..'
'He's away at that awful place, the Wolf's Lair. Come and keep me company.' She led the way down the corridor in the opposite direction from the staircase and into a comfortably furnished living room, chattering all the time. 'I get so bored here while he's at Rastenburg - sit down on this sofa with me. I've just made some coffee - it's the real thing..'
Rastenburg? That was in East Prussia. Had he found the location of Hitler's secret headquarters? And there was something strange going on. Kranz might just have been unaware of the Fuhrer's presence at the Berghof - but Eva Braun, rumoured to be the Fuhrer's mistress, was bound to know his whereabouts. So who was the man pirouetting downstairs surrounded by mirrors? Lindsay was confused as Eva brought two cups, placed them on a low table and joined him on the sofa.
'I haven't seen" you before, Magic Man, she remarked, enjoying his little game. Intuitively he had sensed this rather childish approach would appeal to her. She was a girl who liked constant amusement. 'Does your crystal ball tell you the Fuhrer is coming here soon...?'
Lindsay never replied. The door was flung open and slammed back against the wall. The room was filled with SS armed with Schmeisser machine-pistols. Seven of them led by a Colonel in ordinary army uniform. Kranz hovered in the doorway.
'Excuse us, Fraulein,' the army Colonel said deferentially, 'I think this man is suspect.' His tone changed as he addressed Lindsay. 'Now who are you and where have you come from? I'm Muller, Commandant of the Berghof. We received no signals about you...'
Muller was a far more dangerous man than Kranz. Lindsay stood up slowly and studied the erect, stern- faced German from head to foot. His tone was quiet, almost offhand when he replied.
'I cannot see you remaining Commandant much longer - I am here on a special mission which concerns the Fuhrer and no one else..'
Muller took three quick paces forward, grabbed Lindsay's SS uniform by the collar and ripped it open. The RAF uniform beneath was exposed. The Commandant placed his hands on his hips.
'I thought there was something wrong about you.
A session in the cellars should prove rewarding. 'Hardly for you - once the Fuhrer arrives..' Outraged at this insolence, an SS man hefted his machine-pistol and lunged with the -butt, striking Lindsay on the jaw. The Englishman fell backwards and hit the wall and slithered to a sitting position as Eva ran from the room. He wiped blood from his mouth. At the last second he had moved; the butt had only grazed his jaw.
hope the wound is still visible when the Fuhrer sees me,' he commented:
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Muller's eyes. His prisoner's calm reaction worried him. Behind the Commandant, Kranz took a few tentative steps into the room, speaking hesitantly.
'There is a safe in his room. I gave him the key - he spoke of secret papers..
'I am Wing Commander Ian Lindsay,' the Englishman said quickly. 'Nephew of the Duke of Dunkeith. I knew the Fuhrer before the war. Those documents are for his eyes only - I stole a plane and flew here from Algiers. You think I wanted to commit suicide? I was a member of the Anglo-German Fellowship. And that's all I'm going to tell you until I see the Fuhrer. If you value your cushy job here you'd better signal the Wolf's Lair informing them of my arrival. Meantime, I'd like to go back to my room..'
He was escorted back and, inside his room, Muller watched while he was searched. They found nothing of interest
, except the key to the wall-safe and his RAF identity papers. Muller looked at the papers, returned them to their owner and balanced the safe- key in the palm of his hand as though trying to come to a decision. Lindsay, getting himself dressed again, began needling Muller to help him make up his mind.
'Go on! Do it! Open that safe! Open the package inside so you're privy to what it contains. Once the Fuhrer realizes you have seen its contents you'll be standing in front of a firing squad within the hour..
Lindsay was gambling on his assessment of Muller's character. An old war-horse put out to grass, stolid and unimaginative and serving out his time, waiting for his-army pension. The SS man who had hit him earlier lifted his machine-pistol. Muller barked the order.
'Klaus! I give the orders here! You have already assaulted the prisoner once without my permission..
And Lindsay knew he had won his gamble. Mailer was already disassociating himself from Klaus's impetuous action - and until Hitler arrived the last thing he would do would be to open the safe. He pocketed the key and Lindsay spoke again.
'If you keep that key I must remain in this room..
'God in Heaven! Why?'
For your own sake, dumb-head! That is the only way I will be able to assure the Fuhrer no one else has seen the contents of the package - by telling him I was here all the time! And that means I shall need meals sent up to me - three hot cooked meals a day. I eat breakfast at...'
Muller was beaten. After Lindsay finished speaking the Commandant and his unit left the room. The Englishman heard someone lock the door on the outside. He wiped the moisture off his palms onto his trousers. He was now gambling on something he had carefully not brought up during the confrontation.
The Commandant would worry about his presence, would be terribly anxious to pass on to the Wolf's Lair the responsibility for what action should be taken next. Once the signal about his arrival reached Rastenburg the Fuhrer would be curious about this strange development. And Lindsay was gambling everything on Hitler's reputed fabulous memory - that he would recall his meeting with the young pro-Nazi Englishman in Berlin before the war.
As he sat in a chair and felt waves of fatigue - reaction - sweeping over him, he began to worry about something else. His stay at AFHQ - Allied Forces Headquarters in the Central Mediterranean - had been brief and General Alexander had seemed a man who was the soul of discretion.
But there was a Russian military liaison mission with AFHQ and whatever other disaster might lie ahead one thing was vital. The Soviets must never catch a whisper of his existence, let alone the purpose of his mission.
Commandant Muller slept on the decision as to whether or not to inform the Wolf's Lair about the Berghof's enigmatic visitor. So it was near midday on 13 March when he personally 'phoned the HQ in East Prussia and asked to speak to the Fuhrer. As usual, Martin Bormann intercepted the call and insisted that Miller speak to him.
'You think this Englishman might have flown to see the Fuhrer on a peace mission?' Bormann asked after a few minutes.
'I can't be sure of anything, Reichsleiter,' Muller covered himself quickly. 'I felt you should know of his presence..
'Quite right! A good decision, Muller - to inform me. I like to know all that is going on - so I can keep the Fuhrer himself informed when the matter merits his attention. Continue to keep Lindsay under close guard. Heil Hitler!'
Inside the signals office at the Wolf's Lair Bormann replaced the receiver and took a quick decision. The Fuhrer was visiting Field Marshal von Kluge's front at Smolensk. A signal must be sent telling him about the Englishman.
Bormann composed the signal himself. This extraordinary event could have incalculable possibilities. The nephew of the Duke of Dunkeith! He could be bringing peace proposals - if he delayed reporting Lindsay's landing the Fuhrer would never forgive him.
After despatching the signal to Smolensk Bormann mentioned the news to Jodl who immediately told Keitel. Within hours the Wolfsschanze was buzzing with rumours and it was the main topic of conversation.
Hitler's response arrived almost by return. It was terse and to the point. Clearly he had remembered his pre-war meeting with the Englishman and knew exactly who he was.
Arrange immediately for Wing Commander Lindsay to fly direct to Wolfsschanze in the afternoon. Will interview him several hours after my return.
The Fuhrer was already airborne, flying, back from Smolensk.
Chapter Seven
13 March 1943. During most of 1943, Section V (counter-espionage) of the SIS occupied two country houses — Prae Wood and Glenalmond — outside St Albans. Twenty-nine-year-old Tim Whelby was stationed at Prae Wood.
Whelby always seemed older than his years, a quiet, generally popular man with his colleagues. They found his company relaxing, which encouraged tense men to talk to him, especially after a few drinks at the local village pub in the evenings. His dress was as casual as his manner — flannels and an old tweed jacket with elbow patches. He smoked a pipe, which seemed to add to his reputation for reliability.
On the evening of the 13th he was leaving the country house on his way to the pub when a Morris Minor pulled up in the drive with a jarring clash of gears. Behind the wheel sat Maurice Telford, a lean- faced man of forty. Whelby approached the vehicle and saw by the faint light from the dashboard that Telford looked positively haggard. He had also noted the gear clash. Normally Telford was a first-rate driver.
'Back from a trip, old chap?' Whelby enquired. 'Haven't seen you around for days..
'You can say that again! I'm bloody all in..'
'Join me for a drink at the local? Do you good before you get to bed.'
'That's all I want - to flop into bed.' Telford hesitated. He was strung-up after the long flight back from Algiers. Tim Whelby waited patiently, pipe stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He never pushed.
'Yes, I could do with a noggin. And some blotting paper. You wouldn't believe when I last ate..'
'Good man.' Whelby climbed into the front passenger seat and sagged. 'I could do with a bit of company...'
Telford was left with the impression he was conferring a favour on Whelby by agreeing to accompany him. There was no further conversation between the two men until Whelby led the way inside the deserted bar of The Stag's Head and gestured towards a seat in an oak-beamed corner.
`I'll get the drinks - the inglenook looks comfortable.'
Telford settled himself on the banquette. He stared when Whelby placed a glass before him. 'What's that?' he asked.
'Double Scotch - no point in doing things by halves. And eat up those sandwiches - they only had cheese. Here's to no more trips abroad. Cheers!'
'Who said anything about my going abroad?' asked Telford and then swallowed half the contents of the glass.
'Someone did. Can't remember who. Does it matter?'
'I suppose not.' Reeling with fatigue, Telford drank the rest of his Scotch. Its warming glow relaxed him. 'All the way to North Africa in a freezing bloody Liberator bomber - no seats, nothing except the floor and a sleeping-bag. I'm bruised all over. And all to nanny that lunatic Wing Commander, Ian Lindsay, now en route to meet the Fuhrer, for Christ's sake.'
'Sounds a bit stupid - couldn't he make it out there under his own steam?'
Whelby's manner was offhand as though making polite small talk. He summoned the barman and ordered another couple of rounds. Telford protested. 'My round, this one..'
'Then you shall pay, old chap. We'll both end up drunk - what else is there to do in this benighted neck of the woods?'
'I wasn't really his escort,' Telford explained. 'AFHQ had a secret report which they wanted delivered door-to-door. When I got back earlier this- evening I dropped it off at Ryder Street before driving out here. I was cover for Lindsay - two people landing at Algiers attract less attention than an individual..
He sipped cautiously at his Scotch, swallowing more with care. Whelby stood up to divest himself of his overcoat, took out his pipe and sucked at the ste
m without lighting it. They sat in silence for several minutes, soaking up the warmth from the crackling log fire. Telford had devoured his sandwiches. What with the food, the drink and the comfort he was nearly falling asleep.
'You're jo-jo-joking, of course,' Whelby said eventually. 'About this RAF type flying to see HitHit-Hitler?'
He had an unfortunate habit of stuttering. Muddled though he was with alcohol and fatigue, Telford remembered that people who stuttered were often caught by their affliction in moments of tension. The fact seemed important - significant...' Seconds later he found he couldn't recall what fact was - or might be - important. Then he remembered what Whelby had just said and he felt indignant. He spoke with great deliberation.
'Wing Commander Ian Lindsay of the RAF flew on to Malta for the express purpose of flying on alone to Germany to see the Fuhrer. And don't ask me why - because I don't know!'
'Anyway-you're just damned glad to be back home so let's have one for the road. My treat. Double Scotch for both of us..'
Telford waited for the barman to bring the fresh drinks and go away. He had experienced one of those rare and brief flashes of clear insight which can break through an alcoholic haze. People were coming into the bar so he lowered his voice. Whelby bent his head to catch what he was saying.
'I shouldn't really have told you any of this, Tim. I trust you, but one word and I'm out - maybe something even worse..
'Official Secrets Act, old chap,' Whelby confided with a lack of tact which startled Telford. 'We both. signed it,' Whelby continued, 'so we're both locked into the same gallows. Neither of us remembers a word and no one puts a noose round our necks..'
'Ghoulish, aren't we? Let's go home...'
Whelby went over to the bar to pay while Telford made a careful way.to the door and the waiting car outside. The landlord noticed Whelby seemed remarkably sober - he counted out the coins exactly.
Two days later Tim Whelby went on a forty-eight-hour visit to Ryder Street in London to discuss with his chief a problem of an overseas agent he suspected was feeding them with rubbish to justify his existence. At ten o'clock at night he was strolling down Jermyn Street alone.
