Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'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.

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 leanfaced 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.