Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

It was ten o'clock at night in Zagreb when Jaeger heard from the guard-room downstairs in the old villa that Karl Gruber of the Gestapo was waiting to see him.

'Tell him to wait!' Jaeger slammed down the 'phone and turned to Schmidt who sat at another desk, poring over a map of Bosnia. 'We need every minute to check over the details of Operation Raven, we'll be damned lucky to get an hour's sleep and who do you think lands on our doorstep? Gruber of the Gestapo!'

'He must smell profitable pickings – to risk his precious skin even in Zagreb. You'd better see him.

Get to know what he's up to and we can sidetrack him.'

'You're right, of course.' Jaeger's admission was reluctant. 'You always are,' he added drily.

'Shall I go down and bring him up myself? I could twist his tail first. Tell him how busy you are. Is it really that important? Better get some sleep and leave it till morning. I might just pull it off! We'll be gone by morning.'

'You'll be lucky! Not a word about Operation Raven,' he warned.

'Do I look thick?' Schmidt enquired.

'Ask an embarrassing question, expect an embarrassing reply.'

On the eve of the parachute drop the two men had, if possible, drawn even closer together. I'm born lucky to have Schmidt, Jaeger reflected as he waited alone. I should have stopped him coming on this thing…'

He only had to wait a few minutes. There was a knock on the door. He called out Enter! And framed in the doorway stood Gruber accompanied by Willy Maisel. The whole bloody clown act had arrived. Behind the two Gestapo agents Schmidt threw up a mock salute.

Jaeger sat behind his desk like a man of stone, offering no greeting. He noted Schmidt had rolled up the map on his desk before going downstairs. Trust him to attend, unbidden, to the small details.

The two Gestapo officials, sat in chairs Schmidt placed some distance from the desk. Gruber promptly shifted his closer to the desk. He extended a pudgy hand which Jaeger, glancing down at his papers, pretended not to notice. He thought Willy Maisel looked unhappy about the whole business.

Gruber swivelled round in his chair. He stared at Schmidt, now seated behind his desk. He turned back to stare at Jaeger from under pouched eyes. There were signs of fatigue about both men.

'This is highly confidential,' Gruber began. 'It would be better if we were alone, if you please.'

'I don't please. And your suggestion is an insult to Schmidt who would automatically assume my command if anything happened to me.'

'Is something going to happen to you, Colonel?' Gruber asked.

'Something could happen to any of us. The Croat rebels like to place time-bombs in the most unexpected places. You would be a prime target if they gain knowledge of your presence…'

He had the satisfaction of seeing the dough-faced Gestapo officer wince. Again he said nothing more, forcing Gruber to make all the running.

'We understand you may soon have Wing Commander Lindsay in your hands. He is to be handed over to us for questioning at Gestapo headquarters in Graz.'

'Thumb-screws and pliers for a little amateur nail-varnishing?' Jaeger shook his head. 'Not a chance. If we ever apprehend Lindsay again I shall personally escort him into the presence of the Fuhrer at the

Wolf's Lair.'

Gruber lost his temper. Maisel lifted his eyes to the ceiling as his companion snatched a folded document from his pocket and threw it on the desk. He raised a clenched fist to crash it on the desk as he opened his mouth to speak. Then he caught Jaeger's expression. The fist dissolved in mid-air.

'My instructions,' he said in a normal tone, 'are by order of the Fuhrer.'

Jaeger unfolded the sheet, watching Gruber all the time. Then he read the document carefully, refolded it and handed it back politely. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms.

'That bit of bumf is Signed by Bormann. I have a document granting me full powers – signed by the Fuhrer himself. Go back to your headquarters and get some sleep. Better still, go to the airfield and fly back to Germany. I cannot guarantee your safety any longer in this part of the world. It's up to you…' He stood up, clasping his hands out of the way behind his back. 'A safe journey, gentlemen…'

'Open the van yourself, Moshe. See what is within your grasp after you have carried out the assignment, said Vlacek.

He handed his small, heavily-built companion a key. The van stood inside a secluded courtyard in a remote part of Jerusalem. Moshe – it was not his real name – was a commander of the Stern Gang, one of the most active and violent of the Jewish underground groups.

Moshe took the key, looked again swiftly round the cobbled yard and inserted the key in the lock. He opened the left-hand door and stared at the pile of freshly-greased Lee Enfield. 303 rifles. At the back of the van was a pile of ammunition boxes.

'Hurry up,' urged Vlacek. 'This is sight of the goods only. Delivery only after the job is done.'

'This Lindsay you want liquidating. When is he coming in?'

'Soon. Soon. He will be flown into Lydda Airport.' 'Too well-guarded.'

'Wait till I've finished, Vlacek snapped. 'He will stay in Jerusalem for one day, possibly two. You will be told where he is being kept. You will know immediately he arrives…'

Dark-haired with a sun-tanned complexion, the skin pitted with old pock-marks, Moshe nodded dubiously, climbed inside the van and picked up a rifle at random.

Testing the mechanism after checking to make sure it was unloaded, he released the safety catch, squinted along the sight under cover of the van and pressed the trigger. Laying down the rifle, he walked over to one of the boxes, produced a tool from under his shabby jacket and levered the top off the box.

He picked up a handful of cartridges, selected one, took it back to the rifle and inserted the cartridge in the breech. First, he had put back on the safety catch, much to Vlacek's relief. Extracting the cartridge he threw it back into the box and dropped the rifle. With an agile movement he jumped out of the van and left Vlacek to close and lock it.

'Your Lindsay is dead,' he said.

It was a bitter irony. At the starting point of Lindsay's journey Reader bartered guns to save the RAF officer's life, to fly him to the safety of the Middle East.

In Palestine Vlacek used guns stolen-from a British Army depot to pay the Stern Gang to end Lindsay's life. In the vicious turmoil of war it was not money – not gold – which was the universal currency. It was guns.

As soon as Moshe had driven away on his motorcycle, Vlacek made a signal. The double doors of one of the buildings enclosing the abandoned courtyard were opened. Inside stood a larger van without markings, its rear doors open. Two heavy planks formed a ramp leading up to its interior.

Vlacek himself took the wheel of the smaller van loaded with the guns and ammo. He drove it with great skill across the yard, up the improvised ramp and inside the larger van. The other man closed the doors and hurried to the cab.

Within minutes of Moshe's departure the larger van moved under the archway leading into the deserted street beyond. Keeping well within the speed limit, it followed a devious route to another courtyard a couple of miles away where it was parked inside a similar building.

Vlacek emerged from the larger vehicle, brushing dust off his clothes. He had no intention of risking the Stern Gang mounting a raid to seize the rifles before they completed their side of the arrangement. As in Yugoslavia, there was no trust anywhere.

'1100 hours tomorrow,' said Reader as he closed the telescopic aerial of his transceiver. 'They're sending a Dakota, God help us. Let's hope they send us one with wings on…'

'That's really positive?' asked Paco. 'No reservations?'