Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'Finished, Hans? This weather suit your driving? You bastard, you should be restricted to the autobahn..'

Belatedly, an SS guard had appeared and was joshing the driver who stood still holding the sack. He glanced back over his shoulder and shouted at the guard.

'Gunther, you can piss down your trouser leg. I'll be back in Salzburg before noon. Care to join me in the cab?'

'In this weather! You're a bloody lunatic! The checkpoints should slow you down – if you haven't turned the truck over…'

Lindsay held his breath. Christa's boot was still sticking out. He dared not mention it to her. And when the driver spotted it he'd call to the guard…

The sack of dirty linen sailed through the air and landed on her foot, completely concealing it. Clump! the driver had jumped to the ground. There was a grinding rattle. Darkness. He had shut the door.

Crouched over his wheel inside the cab Hans switched on – the fog-lamps, the motor. Gear in, brake released. He was away. He rammed his foot on the accelerator. The truck took off down the winding slope.

Under the sack pile Christa grabbed hold of Lindsay and held on as the vehicle began to sway from side to side. The vehicle picked up more speed. The sacks cushioned them from the buffeting but under them they could feel the wheels sliding. Lindsay guessed they were approaching the hairpin bend. He waited for Hans to reduce speed.

Hans accelerated. He had wiped a peep-hole in the windscreen but it was still partially misted over. The eery yellow beams of the fog-lamps showed the hairpin coming up. He kept his foot well down.

Lindsay held Christa tightly. He felt the rear wheels swinging out of control. Hans let the truck go with the skid. No braking. He held the wheel steady, went with the skid until the vehicle was moving slowly, then gently applied the accelerator. He had navigated the hairpin. He pressed his foot down and headed for the first checkpoint.

In the back of the truck Christa clung to Lindsay. There was sweat on the Englishman's forehead. She let out her breath in a deep sigh.

'He's going to kill us,' she said.

'Rear wheel skid,' said Lindsay in a clipped tone. 'He coped with it perfectly. I'll tell you now where we're heading for – Munich.'

'That's the second express then – the one that departs at 12.30 from Salzburg. If we make it we reach Munich at 1.30 – which is when they'll be bringing your lunch to your room at the Berghof. The alarm will be raised almost at the precise moment we get to Munich. Bormann will react fast – he'll put out an alert for us all over Bavaria.'

'Let's get to Salzburg first,' Lindsay suggested. 'And we'll have about a twenty-four-hour wait in Munich before I can meet our contact. Where the hell we'll hole up I don't know…'

'I do! Kurt had a small attic hideaway which should still be available..'

'Whereabouts in Munich?' he asked casually. 'Near the Fedhermhalle or the Frauenkirche?'

'Very close to the Frauenkirche. It's in a small alley. It's not much of a place but his aunt hates the Nazis They put her husband in a labour battalion. It's one reason why Kurt chose the place…' She broke off. 'We're stopping. Christ! This is the first checkpoint.'

Inside his cab Hans swore when he saw the barrier like a frontier pole was barring his way at the checkpoint. Bloody fools! Had they nothing better to do in this weather. And there seemed to be more guards about than usual.

He braked but kept the motor running as a strong hint. With a sense of relief he recognized the SS officer approaching as he lowered his window. Hans never alighted from his cab – not for any time-serving bloody soldier!

`You are trying to break a record, Hans?' the thin-faced SS man enquired. 'We saw you coming down the mountain – you're going to end up breaking your neck.'

'I'm late for my meal. What's all the fuss? Why the circus?'

'We are searching all vehicles. An exercise. Orders from the Berghof last night..'

'Well get on with it – and then lift that ruddy pole!'

'Always so polite, Hans!'

Every word of the conversation could be clearly heard inside the truck. Lindsay gripped the butt of the Luger again. They had to be discovered if the truck was searched. Could he cold-bloodedly press the muzzle of the Luger against Christa's temple and pull the trigger? He had never killed a woman before…'

A grinding rattle as someone raised the rear door. The temperature dropped even lower as air flooded inside. Christa grasped his gun-hand carefully, lifted it slowly and placed the tip of the muzzle against the side of her head. He didn't take the first pressure on the trigger. Would they use bayonets to prod the sack pile?

A scraping noise – followed by an intake of breath. Someone had clambered up inside the truck. Lindsay felt moisture on the palm of the hand holding the pistol. Christa lay quite inert. What the hell must her thoughts be at this moment? Lindsay had never felt so helpless, a sensation he detested.

A clump of jackboots moving closer. Outside the sound of several voices. He could feel the tension inside Christa's body. The poor kid was petrified with terror. Sounds followed each other in rapid succession. The groaning rumbling of a half-track vehicle nearby. The now familiar rattle of the doom at the back being closed. 'Piss off, Hans, and get your lunch…' Gear change. Brake release. The truck was moving…

'Hans!' A bellowing shout. 'Drive straight through the next two checkpoints.' They were on their way.

At the Berghof the Fuhrer rose at his normal late hour – 11 am – within minutes of Lindsay's and Christa's escape to Salzburg. Following his normal routine, he had gone to bed at 3 am.

His bedroom, which had a connecting link via a dressing room with Eva Braun's, was furnished in a Spartan fashion. The only decoration on the walls was an oil painting of his mother copied from an old photograph.

One of the most powerful men in the world, he shaved and dressed himself without any help from his valet, Krause. His garb was as ordinary as his late breakfast. He wore his brown tunic with the red swastika armband and trousers.

His breakfast – never varied – consisted of two cups of milk and up to ten pieces of zwieback, the German black rusk. He also consumed several pieces of semi-sweet chocolate which, he was convinced, gave him energy.

He ate alone and standing up, leafing through the latest reports of DNB, the German News Agency. Breakfast was finished in five minutes and then he was ready for the day. He opened the midday military conference attended by Bormann, Keitel, Jodl and other high officers with an unusual remark.

'I have the odd feeling that something disturbing has happened.'

'What might that be, mein Fuhrer?' purred Bormann.

'If I knew, I would have told you! Now let's get on..'

He adopted a characteristic pose while he listened to Jodl outlining the present position on the Eastern front, standing with both hands clasped over his lower abdomen. He said nothing, nodding his head occasionally as though in agreement. His silence had the effect of creating an atmosphere of tension.

At one moment he left the conference table over which was spread a large-scale map of Soviet Russia. He stood peering out of a window and then returned to the table. He had been gazing towards Salzburg.

Bormann went berserk when he heard the news. The military conference ended abruptly when Hitler glowered at his generals and left without a word. It was 1.30 pm. Since it was Sunday, the cook had prepared Lindsay's meal a few minutes early because he was anxious to finish and get away for a few hours. The tray was delivered to the Englishman's empty room at 1.25.

'God in Heaven, Jaeger!' Bormann fumed. 'What kind of security are you running. You plan a trap for Lindsay earlier, it flops – later in the morning he escapes…'