Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

Beria could imagine it only too well, but was careful not to say so. It described perfectly the regime in the Kremlin.

'Perhaps the problem is not insoluble?' he ventured.

'I have already taken steps to deal permanently with our Wing Commander,' Stalin informed him.

On 2 May in London it was raining, which- was no great surprise, a steady drizzle which could soak you in five minutes if you were outside. Tim Whelby was outside.

He wore an ordinary, drab raincoat and pretended to be reading a newspaper in the dreary surroundings of Charing Cross station. It was also chilly and he shivered as he checked his watch. 10 pm. Exactly. Another three minutes and he would go back to his flat.

'An urgent signal has arrived from Cossack…'

The words were spoken in a whisper. Savitsky had appeared out of nowhere. He stood a foot away from Whelby and shook water off his umbrella over the Englishman. He turned and apologized in a normal voice.

'That's all right. I was wet through anyway,' Whelby replied in a sarcastic tone. He lowered his voice. 'Do get on with it, the police patrol round here…'

'Our Wing Commander is heading for Yugoslavia. We understand he hopes to contact one of the Allied agents there…'

'He's on his own?' Whelby could not keep the surprise out of his question. By now he had pieced together a fairly complete picture of Lindsay. He knew for certain the RAF type spoke fluent German but no one had mentioned Serbo-Croat. The whole thing seemed highly unlikely. 'Are you sure about this information?' he asked.

'All my information is correct,' the Russian said with some irritation. 'And no, he is not alone. He linked up with a group of Allied agents. They got him out of Germany.'

'What do you expect me to do about it?' Whelby demanded sharply. 'My area is the Iberian peninsula. He was coming out via Switzerland and on to Spain. I might have done something then.'

'He must not reach Colonel Browne alive. Even if you have to intercept him personally. That comes from the top. I'm going…'

'I would if I were you,' Whelby replied with a trace of bitterness. For God's sake, did they imagine he was a trained assassin?

Marooned in southern Austria, Wing Commander Lindsay had no inkling of how many different enemy groups were closing in on him. On the German side there were Colonel Jaeger and his deputy, Schmidt; the Gestapo, led by Gruber and his more intelligent colleague, Willy Maisel; and Major Hartmann of the Abwehr.

Stalin was being, kept constantly in touch with the Englishman's progress. He was further doing everything in his power to bring about the Wing Commander's early liquidation.

Finally, there was the most trusted quarter – London – a haven Lindsay was desperately trying to reach. And here Tim Whelby was waiting with orders to ensure that the Wing Commander never survived to deliver his report on his visit to the Fuhrer.

At this stage all the leading characters in the Great Game were living in a state of chronic anxiety. Stalin was sweating it out in case the Allies made a separate deal with the Germans. Roger Masson was having nightmares because he could not rid himself of the dread that Hitler would invade Switzerland if he found out the activities of Lucy. Roessler was worrying because he seemed to have lost the confidence of his Swiss protectors.

The key to all this desperate insecurity was that in May 1943 the Germans still stood a good chance of winning the war. They had the resources, the men – and the generals – to destroy Soviet Russia.

In London Tim Whelby was only too aware of the military situation. His most recent encounter with Josef Savitsky had shaken him badly. Although he had earlier had the briefest of meetings with Lindsay he had hardly noticed the man. Others had been present – men whom it had seemed more important to observe and cultivate.

'During a recent trip to Madrid,' he remarked casually to Colonel Browne shortly after the Charing Cross meeting, 'I was told of a rumour we might be exploring the possibilities of a separate peace with Hitler if the terms were right…'

'Really?' Browne hardly appeared to be listening as he stooped over the papers on his desk. 'Who told you that?'

'Just an informant I'd sooner not name. I told him that the whole thing was a load of rubbish. How do these rumours start?'

'The way all rumours start I suppose…'

'The same informant told me.. Whelby invented the story while he went on talking.. that Lindsay was sent on a peace mission to Hitler and is now negotiating a treaty with him…'

'Really?' Colonel Browne's tone expressed sheer disbelief in what he was being told and he reached for another document.

Whelby dropped the subject. It would be dangerous to pursue the topic any further. The devil of it was he had still not obtained Browne's confidence so he would open up on Lindsay's real role.

When Paco and Lindsay – with Bora and Milk – reached the ancient town of Graz from the Sudbahnhof they did not linger. They arrived well after dark. Mingling with the hurrying crowd of other passengers, they walked out of the station without interference.

'No sign of security or police checks,' Lindsay commented.

'This is a backwoods place, remote from the war,' Paco replied as they continued on foot. 'No taxis here and the last bus left an hour ago. You can walk three kilometres. You've been sitting down for a whole day!'

'There's a different atmosphere.' He glanced behind and Bora was following with Milic in the distance. The moon shone brightly on cobbles worn by centuries of footfalls. 'It might be a country at peace, like Switzerland.'

'Don't get too rhapsodic,' she warned. 'We hide up here for about three weeks in case they're watching the frontier for us. Then we cross into Yugoslavia at the Spielfeld-Strass border post – and that may be no picnic.

'We're all going over together?'

'You and I together. We change clothes into Serbian costume. Bora and Milic provide the diversion to help us through…'

'I should help them…' he began.

'You should do as you're bloody well told! This is my territory. You're a package we have to deliver to one of the Allied military missions…'

'Maybe I should apologize for existing…'

'Now, don't go all sulky. That I can do without…'

During the verbal flare-up Paco had kept her soft voice calm as though they were carrying on a normal conversation. She glanced sideways at him as he stared straight ahead.

'You saved our bacon at the Sudbahnhof when you rushed me aboard the train. We make a good team, Lindsay.' She grasped his free arm. 'We're all exhausted – that's the moment to watch it. We've just passed a couple of Austrian policemen in uniform…'

'I never even saw them.'

'Because we were too busy arguing like a normal couple. I saw one of them grin and make a remark to his companion…'

'You devious little bitch!'

'It's nice to be appreciated…' She squeezed his arm and began walking faster. He stared at her – she had deliberately provoked the row to get them past the policemen. Her quick-mindedness and ingenuity never ceased to amaze him. This, he thought, was how Paco's group had survived so long.

'What did you do before the war?' he asked. 'I don't know much about you…'

'I worked for an advertising agency in Belgrade. I was what they call in London an account executive. To survive in that job you have to be very persuasive with all types.'

'You joined the Partisans after Belgrade?'

'I joined the bloody Cetniks – they support the monarchy, which I was quite happy about. That is, until I found they were collaborating with the Germans. I went over to the Partisans because they were fighting Germans. As simple as that…'

They spent the harrowing waiting time in an old house overlooking the river Mur in the centre of Graz. An old couple occupied the staging post. On Paco's instructions Lindsay exchanged not a word with either of them. He slept in a tiny bedroom with a window facing across the river to a weird clock tower perched halfway up a steep hill rising from the opposite bank.