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Colin Forbes: The Heights of Zervos

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Colin Forbes The Heights of Zervos

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The first sound was a dull boom, like the firing of a sixteen-inch naval gun, followed by a series of repeating booms which thundered out across the plain. A tremendous flash illuminated the snow with a searing light, then the flash died and was succeeded by an appalling roar, a deafening, blasting sound as the petrol went up, wagon after wagon in such swift succession that the night seemed to break apart, to open up with volcanic force, to burst and boil with fire. During all his sabotage missions Macomber had never seen anything like it – the moonless night was suddenly lit with a vast orange conflagration which showed the huddled rooftops of Bucharest to his left, rooftops white with snow and then palely coloured by the glow of the seething fire enveloping the railyard from end to end. He was turning the car when the smoke came, a billowing cloud of blackness which temporarily smothered the orange glow and rolled towards the city. Reversing cautiously, he edged the rear of the Volkswagen into the paling fence, which cracked like glass in its frozen state, pitching an intact section into the field beyond. He changed gear, turned a cautious semicircle, straightened up, accelerated and headed for Bucharest.

The sabotaging of the petrol train was Macomber's last assignment in the Balkans, since the taking over of Rumania by the Wehrmacht would soon make any further explosive excursions well-nigh impossible, and while he drove into the outer suburbs of Bucharest his attention was concentrated on the hazards which lay ahead – the hazard of escaping from Rumania, of crossing German-occupied Bulgaria and entering neutral Turkey where he could catch a boat for Greece. The Greek mainland – where Allied troops had recently landed to meet the threat of German invasion – meant safety, but reaching the haven was quite a different matter. He could only hope to pass through the intervening control points by preserving his impersonation of a German up to the last moment, but it was the Abwehr he feared most. It was the Abwehr who had sent men into the Balkans to end the wave of sabotage and Macomber knew the Abwehr were closing in on him, might even be within twenty-four hours of discovering his true identity. So it was back to his flat to pick up the already packed bag, then on the road again, south for Bulgaria and Istanbul beyond.

Lord, he was tired! Macomber rubbed the back of bis hand over his eyes as he drove slowly through the deserted streets -driving at speed inside a built-up area might attract attention. The old stone buildings, five storeys tall, were in darkness, except where here and there a high window showed a light -some family woken by the unnerving explosions which had broken over the city – but the lights were going out again as he drove along a devious route which avoided the main highway, feeling the tension rising as he drew closer to the flat. Returning late at night it was always like this – because you never knew who might be waiting for you on the darkened staircase. Reversing the Volkswagen into the garage which had once served as a stable, he parked it facing the double doors, ready for a speedy departure in case of emergency; then, lighting one of the foul-tasting German cigars he had come to like, he began the five minute-walk to the apartment block.

As he walked steadily through the crusted snow he found his thoughts wandering back over the years to when he had walked through other cities without fear. Through New York as a boy when they had lived there with his American mother, and later, as a youth, through the streets of Edinburgh when his been the sapping fatigue, the temptation of a few hours in bed which had made him take this needless risk. The place where you stayed was always the most dangerous – they'd taken Forester in his Budapest flat. I'll damned well hold out a few hours longer, let sleep wait until I'm well clear of the city. He had the torch still in his hand when a hard, pipe-like object was rammed into the small of his back and a voice spoke in German.

'Be very careful, Herr Wolff. This is a gun, so why die so early in life? Put on the landing light, please, but do not turn round."

Macomber's hand, which should have been gripping the Luger, now gripped the torch – another sign of the dreadful weariness which had made him overlook his normal precautions. He raised the hand still holding the torch, wondered briefly whether he could utilize the weapon, whether he could swing round and wield the torch as a club, and dismissed the idea as soon as it entered bis head. The man on the landing knew exactly what he was doing, had the gun muzzle pressed firmly into his back, so firmly he would have plenty of time to squeeze the trigger and blow his victim's spine in half at the first hint of a wrong movement. Macomber fumbled for the switch, pressed it down. Light from the low-powered bulb percolated dismally across the landing.

'We will go inside,' the voice continued, a mature experienced voice. 'Use your key to open the door – and be careful!'

Thirty seconds later the pistol in the German's hand was aimed at a point a fraction above Macomber's stomach as he backed through the doorway into his small bedroom. As requested, he pressed down the switch and only the far bedside light came on. 'What is the matter with the overhead light?' the German demanded.

'It's defective – the same switch operates both lights.'

The German, having flashed his own torch into each room, had chosen this one because it was the smallest. Macomber continued backing inside the room where the space for manoeuvre was precisely nil, which presumably was why the German had preferred it, and the watchful look on his adversary's face produced the same reaction in the Scot as the steadiness of the pistol: this was a man who wouldn't be taken by surprise, who wouldn't make a single mistake, a man who would squeeze the trigger instantly if he considered such drastic action necessary. Thin-faced, a shorter man than Macomber, he was in his early forties and he wore a similar leather coat and a similar soft hat. Behind rimless glasses his eyes were unblinking as he gestured for the Scot to sit at the far side of the bed.

'If we're going to talk in here may I take off my coat,' Macomber began, 'and then you can start telling me what the hell this is all about.'

The thin German nodded and issued no further warning about being careful; he simply held his pistol levelled and watched the slow careful movements of taking off the coat. Macomber had noted the rubber overshoes peeping out of his visitor's own coat pocket, which explained his mode of entry -he must have used a skeleton key to open the street door, must then have taken off his overshoes and stepped over the doorstep without disturbing the snow. A man who thought of everything – or almost everything. The Scot hung his coat on a hook at the end of the huge wardrobe which was the other main item of furniture in the room, taking up so much space with the double bed that he had to squeeze his way round in the morning when dressing. He hung the coat carefully to conceal the instability of the wardrobe, the fact that it wobbled easily on its rotting plinth, and he hung the coat with one pocket outwards, the pocket containing the Luger. When he turned round the German reacted instantly. 'You have a gun inside your jacket – take it out very carefully and drop it on the bed, Herr Wolff.'

Macomber used his fingertips to extract the second Luger by the butt, keeping his index finger well away from the trigger as he eased the weapon out of the shoulder holster and let it fall on the bed. The shock had gone, his brain was working again, and at least this manoeuvre had succeeded – by drawing the German's attention to the second gun he had distracted his attention from the coat. The German used his left hand to pick up the Luger and slip it into his pocket. 'Now sit on your side of the bed, Herr Wolff. Incidentally, your German is quite flawless. I congratulate you. My name is Dietrich. Of the Abwehr, of course.'

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