Алистер Маклин - Where Eagles Dare

‘Now then,’ Smith said. ‘You have here, in the Schloss Adler, the most powerful radio transmitter in Central Europe–’

‘You are singularly well-informed, Captain Schmidt,’ Kramer said wryly.

‘Smith. I live Smith. I breathe Smith. I am Smith. Put a radio-telephone call through to Field-Marshal Kesselring’s HQ in Northern Italy. Ask for his Chief of Military Intelligence.’

Kramer said softly: ‘The mutual friend you mentioned?’

‘An old alumnus of Heidelberg University,’ Smith nodded. ‘Colonel Wilhelm Wilner.’ He smiled. ‘Willi-Willi.’

‘You know that? Then it will not be necessary to call him.’

‘Admiral Canaris would like you to.’

‘And you know my chief, too?’ Kramer’s voice was even softer.

‘My self-esteem urges me to say that I do – but modesty and the truth compels me to admit I don’t,’ Smith said disarmingly. ‘I just work for him.’

‘I’m convinced already, convinced beyond all doubt,’ Rosemeyer said. ‘But do as he says, Colonel.’

Kramer did as he was told. He put a call through to the radio room, hung up and waited patiently. Smith lay back in his arm-chair, brandy in one hand, cigar in the other, the picture of relaxed confidence. If Schaffer and the three men on the couch beside him were either relaxed or confident they entirely failed to show it. Behind them their guard watched his four charges hopefully, as if eager to show his expertise with a blackjack. If either Rosemeyer or Jones were thinking any thoughts at all, those thoughts didn’t break through to the surface. Anne-Marie, not quite knowing what was going on, hovered around indecisively, a tentative smile of anticipation still on her face. She was the only person who moved during the period of waiting and that only because Smith crooked a finger at her and indicated his empty brandy glass: so complete was the ascendancy he had achieved that she obeyed the unspoken command without hesitation and brought back a very generous measure of brandy which she set down by his side-table to the accompaniment of a winning smile. Smith gave her a winning smile in return. But no one spoke, not once, during that seemingly interminable wait.

The phone bell rang.

Kramer lifted it and, after a few preliminary exchanges, presumably with operators, said: ‘Colonel Wilhelm Wilner. My dear friend, Willi-Willi. How are you.’ After the introductory courtesies were over, Kramer said: ‘We have an agent here who claims to know you. A Captain John Smith. Have you ever – ah, so you know him? Good, good!’ A pause, then he continued: ‘Could you describe him?’

He listened intently, looking at Smith as a voice crackled over the receiver. Suddenly he beckoned to Smith, who rose and crossed over to where Kramer was sitting.

‘Your left hand,’ Kramer said to Smith, took it in his own, then spoke into the phone. ‘Yes, the tip of the little finger is missing . . . and the right forearm has what?’ Smith bared his right forearm without being told. ‘Yes, yes, two parallel scars, three centimetres apart . . . What’s that? . . . Tell him he’s a traitor?’

‘And tell him he’s a renegade,’ Smith smiled.

‘And you’re a renegade,’ Kramer said on the phone. ‘Chambertin, you say. Ah! Thank you, thank you. Good-bye, my old friend.’ He replaced the receiver.

‘We both prefer French wine,’ Smith said apologetically and by way of explanation.

‘Our top double agent in the Mediterranean,’ Kramer said wonderingly. ‘And I’d never even heard of you.’

‘Maybe that’s why he is what he is,’ Rosemeyer said dryly.

‘I’ve been lucky.’ Smith shrugged, then said briskly: ‘Well, then. My credentials?’

‘Impeccable,’ Kramer said. ‘My God, they’re impeccable.’

‘So,’ Smith said grimly. ‘Now for our friends’ credentials. As you know, Christiansen, Thomas and Carraciola – the real Christiansen, Thomas and Carraciola – while working for–’

‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ Christiansen shouted. He was on his feet, his face suffused with uncontrollable anger. The real Christiansen–’ His eyes turned up as Hartmann’s blackjack caught him behind the ear and he sagged to the floor.

‘He was warned,’ Kramer said grimly. ‘You didn’t hit him too hard, Sergeant?’

‘A two-minute tap,’ Hartmann said reassuringly.

‘Good. I think you may now proceed without interruption, my dear Schmidt.’

‘Smith,’ Smith corrected him. ‘As I was saying, our real agents while working for the British counter-espionage have not only been responsible for the deep infiltration of the German Secret Service into the British espionage network in France and the Low Countries but have also set up an excellent chain of spies in England – a most successful ring, as Admiral Canaris well knows.’

‘It’s not my territory,’ Kramer said. ‘But that, of course, I know.’

Smith said coldly: ‘To your feet, you impostors, and sit at the table there. Sergeant, lend a hand to that man on the floor there. He appears to be coming round.’

Their faces baffled and uncomprehending, Carraciola and Thomas made their way towards the table and sat down, where they were shortly joined by a very shaky and sick-looking Christiansen. The sergeant remained by him just long enough to ensure that he didn’t fall off his chair, then took three paces back and covered them all with his carbine again.

From the other side of the table Smith flung down in front of the three men the little notebooks that Anne-Marie had brought. Then he produced his own elastic-banded note-book from his pocket and laid it on the small table beside Kramer.

‘If they are who they claim to be,’ Smith said quietly, ‘it would be reasonable, would it not, my dear Kramer, to expect them to be able to write the names and the addresses or contacts of our agents in England and of the British agents who have been supplanted on the Continent by our men.’ He paused significantly. ‘And then compare their lists with the genuine one in my book there.’

‘It would indeed,’ Kramer said slowly. ‘Proof at one stroke. Masterly, my dear Captain Schmidt – Smith, I mean.’ He smiled, almost wanly. ‘I’m afraid I’m not myself tonight. But tell me, Captain.’ He touched the banded note-book by his side. ‘This list of agents – I mean, carrying it around on your person. Does this not contravene every rule we have?’

‘Of course it does. Rules can only be broken by the man who made them. You think that even I would dare without his authority? Admiral Walter Canaris will be in his Berlin office now.’ Smith nodded towards the telephone.

‘What do you take me for.’ Kramer smiled and turned to the three men at the table. ‘Well, you heard.’

‘There’s something terribly far wrong–’ Carraciola began despairingly.

‘There is indeed,’ Kramer interrupted bleakly.

‘I don’t doubt Smith’s bona-fides.’ Carraciola was almost in anguish now. ‘Not any more. But there’s been some ghastly mistake–’

‘You are the ones who have made it,’ Smith said curtly.

‘Write,’ Kramer commanded. ‘Sergeant Hartmann.’

Sergeant Hartmann stepped forward, his leather-thonged blackjack at the ready. The three men bent their heads and wrote.

The armoury was almost deserted now. Some time previously, a couple of sergeants had entered, moved around among the coffee tables and taken at least a score of grumbling men away for unspecified duties. Mary did not have to guess at what those unspecified duties might be. She glanced secretly at her watch for what must have been the twentieth time, rubbed her forehead wearily, rose to her feet and smiled palely at von Brauchitsch.