Алистер Маклин - Where Eagles Dare

Three men were seated comfortably round the great fire, to all appearances having an amicable discussion over after-dinner coffee and brandy, which was being served to them from – almost inevitably – a golden trolley by Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie, like the panelling, was a disappointment: instead of a gold lamé dress she wore a long white silk sheath gown which, admittedly, went very well with her blonde colouring and snow-tan. She looked as if she were about to leave for the opera.

The man with his back to him Smith had never seen before but, because he immediately recognized who the other men were, knew who this man must be: Colonel Paul Kramer, Deputy Chief of the German Secret Service, regarded by MI6 as having the most brilliant and formidable brain in German Intelligence. The man to watch, Smith knew, the man to fear. It was said of Kramer that he never made the same mistake twice – and that no one could remember when he’d last made a mistake for the first time.

As Smith watched, Colonel Kramer stirred, poured some more brandy from a Napoleon bottle by his side and looked first at the man on his left, a tall, ageing, but still good-looking man in the uniform of a Reichsmarschall of the Wehrmacht – at that moment, wearing a very glum expression on his face – and then at the man seated opposite, an iron-grey-haired and very distinguished looking character in the uniform of a lieutenant-general of the US Army. Without a comptometer to hand, it was difficult to say which of the two generals was wearing the more decorations.

Kramer sipped his brandy and said wearily: ‘You make things very difficult for me, General Carnaby. Very, very difficult indeed.’

‘The difficulties are of your own making, my dear Kramer,’ Cartwright Jones said easily. ‘Yours and General Rosemeyer’s here . . . There is no difficulty.’ He turned to Anne-Marie and smiled. ‘If I might have some more of that excellent brandy, my dear. My word, we’ve nothing like this in SHAEF. Marooned in your Alpine redoubt or not, you people know how to look after yourselves.’

In the gloom at the back of the minstrels’ gallery, Schaffer nudged Smith with his elbow.

‘What gives with old Carnaby-Jones knocking back the Napoleon, then?’ he asked in a low indignant murmur. ‘Why isn’t he being turned on a spit or having the French fits coming out of scopolamine?’

‘Sssh!’ Smith’s nudge carried a great deal more weight and authority than Schaffer’s had done.

Jones smiled his thanks as Anne-Marie poured him some more brandy, sipped from the glass, sighed in satisfaction and continued: ‘Or have you forgotten, General Rosemeyer, that Germany is also a signatory to The Hague conventions?’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Rosemeyer said uncomfortably. ‘And if I had my way . . . General, my hands are tied. I have my orders from Berlin.’

‘And you can tell Berlin all they’re entitled to know,’ Jones said easily. ‘I am General – Lieutenant General – George Carnaby, United States Army.’

‘And Chief Co-ordinator of Planning for the Second Front,’ Rosemeyer added morosely.

‘The Second Front?’ Jones asked with interest. ‘What’s that?’

Rosemeyer said heavily and with earnest gravity: ‘General, I’ve done all I can. You must believe me. For thirty-six hours now, I’ve held off Berlin. I’ve persuaded – I’ve tried to persuade the High Command that the mere fact of your capture will compel the Allies to alter all their invasion plans. But this, it seems, is not enough. For the last time, may I request–’

‘General George Carnaby,’ Jones said calmly. ‘United States Army.’

‘I expected nothing else,’ Rosemeyer admitted tiredly. ‘How could I expect anything else from a senior army officer? I’m afraid the matter is now in Colonel Kramer’s hands.’

Jones sipped some more brandy and eyed Kramer thoughtfully. ‘The Colonel doesn’t seem very happy about it either.’

‘I’m not,’ Kramer said. ‘But the matter is out of my hands, too. I also have my orders. Anne-Marie will attend to the rest of it.’

‘ This charming young lady?’ Jones was politely incredulous. ‘A maestro of the thumb-screw?’

‘Of the hypodermic syringe,’ Kramer said shortly. ‘She used to be a trained nurse.’ A bell rang and Kramer picked up a phone by his side. ‘Yes? Ah! They have, of course, been searched? Very good. Now.’ He looked across at Jones. ‘Well, well, well. Some interesting company coming up, General. Very interesting indeed. Parachutists. A rescue team – for you. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to meet one another.’

‘I really can’t imagine what you’re talking about,’ Jones said idly.

‘The rescue team we’ve seen before,’ Smith murmured to Schaffer. ‘And no doubt we’ll be renewing old acquaintances before long. Come on.’

‘What? Now?’ Schaffer jerked an urgent thumb in the direction of Jones. ‘Just when they’re going to get to work on him?’

‘Out of your social depth, Lieutenant,’ Smith whispered. ‘They’re civilized. First, they finish the brandy. Then the works.’

‘It’s like I said,’ Schaffer said mournfully. ‘I’m from Montana.’

The two men left as quietly as they had come and as quietly closed the door behind them. Against the loom of light at either end of the corridor, they could see that the passage-way was clear. Smith switched on the light. They walked briskly along the passage, dropped down a flight of stairs, turned left and halted outside a doorway which bore above it the legend TELEFON ZENTRALE.

‘Telephone exchange,’ Schaffer said.

Smith shook his head in admiration, put his ear to the door, dropped to one knee, peered through the keyhole and, while still in that position, softly tried the handle. Whatever slight sound he made was masked by the muffled sound of a voice speaking over a telephone. The door was locked. Smith slowly released the handle, straightened and shook his head.

‘Suspicious bunch of devils,’ Schaffer said sourly. ‘The skeletons.’

‘The operator would hear us. Next door.’

Next door wasn’t locked. The door gave before Smith’s pressure on the handle. The room beyond was in total darkness and appeared to be empty.

‘ Moment, bitte !’ a cold voice said behind them.

Quickly, but not too quickly, Smith and Schaffer turned round. A few feet away stood a soldier, levelled carbine in his hand, his eyes moving in active suspicion from the two men to the kit-bag in Smith’s hands. Smith glared at the man, raised an imperative forefinger to his lips.

‘ Dummkopf !’ Smith’s voice was a low furious whisper through clenched teeth. ‘ Silenz ! Engländer !’

He turned away impatiently and peered tensely through the partly-opened doorway. Again he held up an imperious hand that commanded silence. After a few more seconds he straightened, lips compressed, looked significantly at Schaffer and moved slightly to one side. Schaffer took his position and started peering in turn. Curiosity, Smith could see, was replacing suspicion in the soldier’s face. Schaffer straightened and said softly: ‘What in God’s name do we do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Smith said in a worried whisper. ‘Colonel Kramer told me he wanted them alive. But–’

‘What is it?’ the soldier demanded in a voice as low as their own. With the mention of Colonel Kramer the last of his suspicions had gone. ‘Who is it?’

‘You still here,’ Smith said irritably. ‘All right, go on. Have a look. But be quick!’

The soldier, his face and eyes now alight with intense curiosity and what might have been dreams of rapid promotion, moved forward on tiptoe as Schaffer courteously stepped to one side to let him see. A pair of Lugers grinding simultaneously into both temples effectively put an end to any idea of rapid military advancement that he might briefly have entertained. He was propelled, stumbling, into the room and, by the time he’d picked himself up and turned round, the door was closed, the light on and both pistols lined at his head.