Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'There's Eva Braun,' Christa reminded him. 'She's bound to detect the impersonation…'

'And how strong is her position without the Fuhrer? What's she like, incidentally?'

'Attractive and empty-headed. Spends most of her time at the Berghof making herself up and thinks of nothing except clothes. She's vain, often grumbles about the lack of attention paid to her by the Fuhrer

'So the dummy has been on the spot to entertain her during the Fuhrer's long absences. They could even have been carrying on an affair,' Lindsay suggested. 'What would her position be without the Fuhrer?' he repeated.

'She'd find herself in the gutter.' Christa's tone was unequivocal. 'She's hated by the wives of the other Nazis – Ribbentrop, Goebbels and so on. My God, I'm beginning to think you could be right. It would also explain why Commandant Muller sealed off that area of the Berghof..

'And why Commandant Muller had to have an "accident" just about the time the switch would be made by Bormann. I'm sure Muller was murdered – he wasn't the type to commit suicide – or fall over the edge of the Kehlstein parapet. Didn't you say there was a very loud explosion about the time the

Fuhrer's plane was due back from Smolensk?' 'It was like a bomb going off…'

'His plane must have crashed,' Lindsay conjectured. 'Who went to the airfield to meet the plane?' 'Martin Bormann:'

'The Brown Shadow. Always at his master's side – and, wielding immense power "by order of the Fuhrer". Only someone with that power could work the trick.'

'You think the plane crashed by accident?' Christa asked.

'What was the weather like?'

'Diabolical. The fog was at tree height. They said the plane had diverted to another airfield.'

'I'm a flier. I've seen that fog at the Wolf's Lair. Landing a plane under those conditions would be near-suicide…'

'The Fuhrer was always impatient. He probably over-ruled the pilot.'

'You realize what this means if we're right? Bormann will send out a horde of men to catch us with orders to shoot on sight.-We know too much to live.'

It was crisis Monday – the day of the rendezvous with Paco. The previous night Christa and Lindsay had slept inside the sleeping-bags in the attic, to protect Helga in case the SS arrived.

'It's a grey day – come and look,' said Christa.

She had pulled aside the curtain masking the tiny dormer window perched high on the top of the building. Lindsay joined her and peered out. Above nearby rooftops loomed two giant domes – once copper-coloured and now green with verdigris. Christa pointed to them.

'That's the Frauenkirche.'

'Close enough. According to the map I studied in London there's a large open space in front. At eleven o'clock will there be many people about?'

'Housewives going from shop to shop trying to find some place which has just had a delivery. Everything is whipped the moment it arrives. Do we walk together this time? You'll be in civilian clothes..'

'Yes.'

It wasn't the perfect arrangement – there would probably be patrols out looking for a man and a girl but he sensed her need for reassurance of his presence. Also he had no idea how Paco planned to get them away. If a vehicle was involved they wouldn't want to waste a second getting inside it.

By 10.30 am they had eaten the meagre breakfast Helga supplied, but she had generously reinforced it with two large cups of the Lyons coffee Sergeant Berg had given her.

'You're not wasting any time,' Lindsay observed.

Up early, Helga had spread the SS uniform out on another table and, using a pair of pinking shears, had cut it into small pieces ready for burning. She had removed the metal buttons and stored them in a small bag.

'They go down a drain three kilometres from here,' she remarked.

An old wooden chair stood near the stove with a large axe on the seat. Helga gestured towards it. 'I break that up – the wood will help to burn the cloth. The tray of cold ashes goes into another bag and will be dumped in a litter bin – again a good distance from my apartment.'

She provided Lindsay with a selection of shabby trousers, coats and jackets and he tried them on quickly. The trousers fitted him well but the jackets were tight and a little short in the sleeves.

'It doesn't matter,' Helga commented. 'In Germany today we wear anything we can lay our hands on. Your problem will be your face.'

'My face?'

'Too young – the face of a possible deserter.' She fetched the stick she had used to fool Berg. 'Take this and limp – you've been badly wounded, unfit for further service, discharged from the Army. I suppose it's the same in England – the streets crawling with cripples…'

Lindsay was careful not to disillusion her. Unlike the Wehrmacht, the British had not been minced up in the barbaric Soviet grinding machine, had not fought Cossacks who, when German troops raised their hands in surrender, rode down the line slicing off the hands at the wrists with their swords.

He checked himself in a mirror and was amazed at the transformation. His blond hair helped – it gave him a Teutonic look. He shoved his Luger down inside his belt, left the jacket loose for ease of access and fastened only one button of the overcoat.

'These were Kurt's things?' he asked quietly.

'Yes. Berg knew he was here but said what the hell – the war was crazy anyway. Would the average Englishman hate the average German if he met him? Or the other way round?' She drew herself up erect. 'You're English – do you hate me?'

'For God's sake, after what you've done..'

'You'd better go or you'll be late for your appointment,' she said severely, cutting off the Englishman in mid-sentence.

Christa hugged Helga and, picking up her suitcase, ran out of the apartment, her eyes brimming. Lindsay picked up his own case, looked at Helga who had picked up the axe and waved it to get him moving. He heard her lock the apartment door as he fumbled his way down the beastly staircase.

'… you'll be late for your appointment.'

The old woman was clever. She'd dismissed them as though they were on their way to attend some business meeting, knowing the tension they must be experiencing as they made their way to their uncertain rendezvous.

High up in the attic overlooking the Frauenkirche, Paco focused the lenses of the field-glasses and slowly scanned the Neuhauser-Kaufigerstrasse, lingering on the open space in front of the great church. A road- sweeper stood near the entrance, wielding his bristle-broom which was almost worn down to the handle. Nearby stood his innocent-looking wheeled trash-bin. As he cleaned the pavement he dragged his left leg.

Paco checked the time. 10.55. If the English agent was coming he had to appear within the next five minutes. So far there was no suspicious activity in the area – only a handful of housewives wearily trudging past on their way to the next stop. Some of them would have been up at six o'clock to make an early start.

Paco climbed down the winding staircase from the observation point and hurried to the ground floor. Dressed in an Astrakhan coat with a matching Russian-style hat pulled well down over the ears, Paco was a sturdily built figure who gave an impression of some wealth.

From a secret cupboard on the ground floor the agent collected a violin case. Inside it was a Schmeisser machine-pistol, fully loaded.

Christa led the way through a maze of cobbled alleys. Looking up, Lindsay caught the occasional glimpse of the twin green domes. It told him how close they were to their destination. How the hell was Paco going to get them away safely? The problem had irked him for some time.

'Stop! Get into a doorway!'

Inside yet another slit-like alley Christa called out the warning and pressed herself into the alcove of a doorway. Lindsay obeyed, the case in his left hand. His right hand slipped under his jacket and gripped the butt of the Luger. He peered along the alley to the street at the end.