Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

`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 stem 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.

The advantage of Jermyn Street is that it runs straight from end to end. This makes it difficult to follow a man secretly, especially at ten o'clock at night in wartime when there are few people about. Earlier Whelby had made a brief call from a telephone kiosk in Piccadilly underground station.

He paused to light his pipe, pretending to peer inside a shop window while he checked the street behind him. The shadowed canyon was deserted.

He resumed his stroll, drew alongside an entrance setback to another shop. With a swift sideways movement he stepped inside. One moment he was on the street; the next moment he vanished. Josef Savitsky, a short, heavy-set man wearing a dark overcoat and a soft hat spoke first.

'These emergency meetings are dangerous. I do hope what you have brought justifies this risk..

'Calm down. Either you have confidence in me or you don't..'

'Well, I am here…'

'So listen!' Whelby's normally diffident manner had changed. He stood more erect and there was an authoritative air about him as he spoke crisply and without a stutter. 'On 10 March a Wing Commander Ian Lindsay was flown to Allied Headquarters in Algiers. From there he was flying on alone to Germany to meet the Fuhrer

'You are certain of this?' There was an appalled note in the stocky man's voice as he spoke English with an accent. Whelby became even more abrupt.

'I'm not in the habit of giving reports I'm uncertain about. And don't ask me my source – which is totally reliable.'

'It is a peace mission, is it not?' the small, pudgy- faced man stated rather than queried.

'Don't play those tricks on me.' Whelby's tone became even sharper as he checked again the illuminated second hand of his watch. 'I have no idea why Lindsay has been sent. Better add to your report that he is the nephew of the Duke of Dunkeith. The Duke was one of the leading lights in the Anglo-German Fellowship before the war. I should know – I was a member, too. Time's up. I'm going…'

Before Savitsky could respond Whelby had strolled out and resumed his walk along the street, both hands thrust inside his overcoat pockets. At the nearby intersection he turned down Duke of York Street and walked rapidly into St James's Square. If anyone was following they would now hurry to find out his destination – which was Ryder Street. Whelby was circling an elaborate block.

Josef Savitsky remained quite still in the deep shadow of the doorway. The arrangement was he should give Whelby five minutes' grace before he emerged on to the street. When the time interval elapsed he began his marathon walk – a walk which took him across many open spaces where no one could shadow him without being seen. It was midnight before he arrived back at the Soviet Embassy.

The Russian – his official position was commercial attache – went straight to his office where he locked the door, switched on the shaded desk light and then extracted the one-time codebook from a wall-safe. He was sweating as he composed his signal – although in March at that time of night the office was chilly.

Satisfied with the result – it had to be just right considering its destination – he proceeded to encode the terse message. He then personally took the signal to the signals clerk on night duty in the basement. He even waited while the signal was transmitted. Savitsky was a careful man. His signal was addressed to 'Cossack' – the codeword for Stalin.

'Wing Commander Lindsay, you are to fly immediately to the Wolfsschanze to meet the Fuhrer. Heil Hitler! '

Commandant Muller of the Berghof security detachment shot out his arm in the Nazi salute as he stood in front of the Englishman in his room where he had been confined overnight. The Commandant's manner had changed entirely from the domineering attitude of his first encounter with the unexpected arrival. It was now one of respect.