Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'We were taking the train to Zagreb when the engine broke down at Spielfeld-Strass. It was going to be hours before they mended it and we have a rendezvous we must keep at all costs.'

A rendezvous. She had spoken the words in a certain way and the moustachioed old farmer with grizzled hair had studied her for a moment. Then, without speaking a word, he had gestured them to climb aboard.

'What was all that about?' Lindsay had murmured when they were settled inside the wagon.

'He thinks we are linking up with a Partisan group. He is a patriot, like most farmers who have been robbed of their crops by the Germans. He just doesn't want to know any details…'

The wagon moved at a surprising pace as the two powerful horses hauled the wagon steadily forward along a deserted road. There was no sign of the Germans, no checkpoints. Lindsay still felt uneasy but could not put his finger on what was bothering him.

'There's no danger of a train getting through from Spielfeld-Strass?' Lindsay persisted.

'Do you always worry like this, question everything?' Paco wondered. 'You yourself saw the state of the track when we fled from the place.'

'You have to be right, I suppose.' Lindsay sounded unconvinced. 'As to worrying, yes – except when I'm in a fighter plane.'

'I'd have thought that was when you did worry.

'You're too preoccupied – watching in all directions, especially your tail.' He glanced at her. 'And then you have no one to think about except yourself…'

'And what does that mean?' she asked, staring straight ahead.

'Just a remark off the top of my head…'

'You're a funny man, Lindsay. Still, I'll soon have you off my hands when we pass you over to one of the Allied military missions.'

There was relief in her tone at the prospect, Lindsay reflected bitterly. As the wagon creaked and wobbled along the road they kept bumping into each other. He could feel the warmth of her body, the firmness of her flesh beneath the thick jacket she wore.

Occasionally she stole quick glances at him, studying his face as he now stared rigidly ahead. Bora, who had a machine-pistol concealed in a multicoloured carpet bag, perched on the logs as he watched the road constantly. The farmer never spoke to his passengers, sitting drooped forward with the reins in his hands. Time passed like a dream with the gently swaying motion of the wagon.

'We're coming into Maribor,' murmured Paco. 'Here you do let me carry on any conversations. It has to be Serbo-Croat from now on. You are a deaf mute.' There was a trace of humour in her voice. 'Make the effort, try and act dumb…'

The farmer dropped them outside the small station and again they split up into pairs, Lindsay accompanying Paco while Bora and Milic kept to themselves. The first shock came when Paco enquired about the next train to Zagreb.

She conversed with a gnarled old railway official who could not have been a day under seventy.. Lindsay listened to the same sing-song, zizzing sound he had first heard when they had queued up behind the two old women at the Spielfeld-Strass frontier post.

Thanking him, she linked her arm inside Lindsay's and led him on to the platform where peasants with large bundles waited. She was careful not to speak until they were by themselves, close to the end of the potholed platform.

'Why are there so many old people about?' he asked. 'I noticed it as soon as we came into Maribor – not a youngster anywhere. In Germany it's understandable…'

'For the same reason,' she said tersely. 'The young ones are in the mountains – with the Partisans or the Cetniks. Damnit, Lindsay, you were right. We'll have to decide what to do…'

'The problem is…'

'It's quite incredible – but I double-checked with the old boy. The next train for Zagreb is due – and it's coming through from Spielfeld-Strass!'

'Never underestimate the enemy. We'd better miss this train and catch the next one…'

'Which is some time tomorrow. Maybe! And there's a German headquarters in this town. It's small, I don't know anyone – and it's Croat territory. Wait here and we could get caught by a routine check. What's the matter with catching this train?'

Taco, we don't know who may be on board. Who will they have sent after us? Because you can guarantee they've sent someone to track me down. Colonel Jaeger? Gruber? Hartmann? Take your pick…'

'I hope it's not Jaeger. I'm sure he'd recognize me – even in these clothes. We spent hours at the Four Seasons in Munich together when I wheedled those transit documents out of him…'

'You never did tell me how you managed that…'

'Here we go again. I've told you once already. I didn't have to sleep with him – that's what you're thinking, isn't it? And Jaeger is a professional soldier, an honourable man whose concern is to do his duty – at least that was my impression. His hobby just happens to be women. What difference does it make to you?'

'So you're prepared to risk this train from Spielfeld-Strass?'

'When the alternative is hanging about in Maribor, yes! And there won't be anyone dangerous on that train. We've moved too fast for them.'

In London during the evening Tim Whelby met Savitsky in a crowded pub in Tottenham Court Road. When he walked into the place at exactly nine o'clock he was surprised to see the Russian sitting in a secluded corner with half a pint of mild and bitter in front of him. It was the first time his contact had arrived early at a rendezvous.

Whelby ordered a double Scotch at the bar and threaded his way among the tables. He paused before taking the vacant seat on which Savitsky had perched his hat to keep the chair occupied.

'Do you mind if I sit here? It's packed tonight.' 'Please join me.'

Whelby swallowed half his Scotch and observed that the Russian watched his action with disapproval. To hell with this pedant of a messenger boy. He swallowed some more and placed the glass on the table.

'Lindsay has crossed the border into Yugoslavia.' 'The Germans aren't doing very well, are they?'

Whelby commented. 'When did this happen?' 'Earlier yesterday. In the morning.'

Whelby was badly shaken. He grasped his glass casually and deliberately held on to it without drinking. It was important never to display any signs of agitation in Savitsky's presence. Whelby had no doubt regular reports assessing his ability and potential as a Soviet agent were despatched to Moscow.

But how the hell had this information reached the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens so swiftly? There had to exist a truly extraordinary system of communication. It began to look as though the system originated inside Germany itself.

'So where do you think he's heading for now?' Whelby asked.

'It's obvious – one of the Allied military missions working with the guerrillas. He could be air-lifted out any time now. Much more speedily than we ever anticipated. You have to stop him ever reporting back to London..

'Thanks a bundle,' Whelby said laconically. 'I beg your pardon? What does that mean?' 'You've told me all this before – about the need for stopping him. A reason would help…'

'You have your instruction. The reason behind an instruction is not your concern. Surely your people must have received a communication from Lindsay about this latest news..'

'If they have, they're not telling me.'

'You, must make enquiries – discreetly, understand?'

'That's reassuring,' Whelby said quietly. 'You remember, I hope, that my area is Spain and Portugal. If you check with an atlas when you get back you'll find they're some distance from Yugoslavia.'

'You make it sound difficult, so when you solve the problem it will make you seem so much more clever.'

'That's right,' said Whelby. 'You've got it in one.'

It was well after dark when the masked lamps of the engine hauling the train from Spielfeld-Strass approached the platform of Maribor station. Hartmann, pleading a need for fresh air, had left Maisel in the compartment while he went into the the corridor, lowered a window and peered out.