The Leader And The Damned Read online

  'No.' A pause. 'In this benighted fog how the hell could anyone? I have identified myself. Kindly repay the compliment before I lower this pistol. You could be bluffing — it's the oldest trick in the world to assume an autocratic tone. And I have come here because this place is crawling with treachery...'

  'Field Marshal Keitel! I am Keitel...'

  'You look like anyone in this lousy light. If we are to talk, may I suggest you dismiss this soldier — who, incidentally, does not handle his weapon very impressively. Security here appears lax..'

  'You can go!' Keitel snapped at the guard. 'Don't forget your weapon — not that the bloody thing is any use.' He turned to the Abwehr officer. 'Kindly accompany me to my hut. I want to talk to you..

  Walking slowly behind the ramrod back, Hartmann smiled to himself as he extracted a pipe after returning the Luger to its holster. Without lighting it, he clenched the much-used pipe between his teeth.

  'No smoking in here!'

  Keitel issued the edict when they were inside his office and he turned and saw Hartmann's pipe. The Abwehr officer kept it in his mouth and removed his cap as he spoke.

  'I hardly ever light it. The pure atmosphere inside here will remain unpolluted. But it helps my concentration. That, I feel sure, you can hardly object to.'

  It was a statement, not a question. From the first few seconds of their encounter in the compound the Abwehr man had recognized Keitel — but he spent half his life using his considerable skill as a psychologist to establish respect, however grudging, for his position. Keitel was the schoolboy bully, the head boy who sucked up to the headmaster and made life hell for the rest of the pupils. Oh God, he had met the type before — times without number. The trick was to throw them off balance instantly.

  'Under whose authority were you permitted to enter the Security Zone?' Keitel barked.

  After removing his cap and outer coat he had sat down behind a large desk. The chair was large — needed to be to accommodate his bulk — and he sat erect. He had overlooked the courtesy of suggesting that Hartmann sat down. The Abwehr officer paused to give his statement maximum shock effect.

  'By order of the Fuhrer.' He took the pipe from his mouth and examined the bowl, then replaced it in its. original position as he continued. 'There are serious rumours - too serious to ignore any longer - that a Soviet spy is operating inside the Wolf's Lair. My job is to identify him.' He extracted a folded piece of paper from his wallet and placed it on the desk. 'There is my movement order...'. Again, the enigmatic pause. 'It gives me full power to question everyone regardless of rank..'

  Keitel's face had changed, like the lowering of a shutter as he checked the order. Hartmann was intrigued. Was Keitel really the obstinate automaton he was reputed to be? Or did the bluster conceal something quite different? More deadly?

  'May I sit down? That is kind of you. My thanks...'

  Hartmann hung cap and coat on the wall-rack next to Keitel's and seated himself in the chair facing the Field Marshal across the wide expanse of desk. Keitel had not replied. He re-folded the document slowly, pushed it across the desk surface, staring at Hartmann. The atmosphere inside the but had subtly changed. Hartmann sensed tension, unease.

  'That document gives you plenipotentiary powers,' 'That's right!' Hartmann responded cheerfully. He Keitel observed slowly, crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, the soul of relaxation. 'The right of interrogation, summary powers of arrest. Regard me as the agent of the Fuhrer...'

  The Abwehr... No one liked them - because everyone feared them. It was unclear where their authority began and ended. That was the style of Admiral Canaris, their chief, Keitel was thinking. It gave the old fox infinite room for manoeuvre. He decided to test the Abwehr man, his manner now bluff and amiable.

  'Of course it goes without saying that your brief does not extend to the upper echelons of the High Command. Colonel-General Jodl, for example...'

  'Or yourself?' Hartmann broke in agreeably.

  'Well, naturally...'

  'Perhaps you had better read the movement order again,' Hartmann suggested jovially. "Regardless of rank"... Is that phrase not included? - Doubtless inserted at the Fuhrer's specific wish - since he himself signed the order.'

  Keitel's mouth tightened. He would have liked to explode - was only holding himself in check with a supreme effort of will, the Abwehr Major noted. Again the Field Marshal glanced at the document still lying on his desk but made no move to re-read it. He went off at a tangent.

  'Do you have to keep that beastly pipe in your mouth when you're addressing me?'

  'As I said, it helps the concentration. We all need something. I notice this interview is something of a strain for yourself - you have not stopped fiddling with that baton since you sat down..'

  Keitel stopped himself looking at his own hands but could not stop himself gripping more tightly the baton he had been revolving on the surface of his desk. Hartmann waited, amused. Keitel was unsure whether to push the baton away - which would have been some kind of concession to this bloody Abwehr creep - or whether to continue as before. Such tiny incidents were everyday stock-in-trade to Hartmann, who excelled in interrogation techniques.

  'I find you insolent,' Keitel responded eventually.

  'Others have found the same. It must be something in my manner - or in the job I have to do...'

  Hartmann took out a notebook and pencil, perched the notebook at an angle so Keitel could not see what he wrote, his manner respectful and businesslike. His action created the impression there was no doubt that Keitel would cooperate. He asked his questions in rapid succession, concealing what he did not know - the normal technique for keeping a witness off balance.

  'The Fuhrer takes all military decisions himself at the twice-daily conferences. You then see that these are carried out?'

  'Of course. There is also Colonel-General Alfred Jodl...'

  'Who again is privy to all decisions?'

  'That is so...'. Keitel paused and perched the tip of his baton beneath his jaw. Hartmann waited, guessing something important was coming. Keitel was not the complete wooden dummy of repute — he was capable of verbal fencing. Which Hartmann found interesting.

  'You should know that someone else is always present — always — at these military conferences. Martin Bormann

  'But for years he has acted as the Fuhrer's secretary, Hartmann interjected as though he saw nothing significant in this comment.

  While he spoke the Abwehr officer's pencil was apparently making notes. Keitel would have been startled had he been able to see the pencil jottings — which were nothing more than caricature doodles of himself. Hartmann was blessed with total recall of any conversation he participated in.

  'So,' Hartmann. continued, 'we have yourself, Jodl and Bormann as the three men who always know the present — and near-future — order of battle of the Wehrmacht?'

  'You have not included the other secretary,' Keitel remarked in a remote voice. Once again Hartmann had the strong sensation of shutters closing down, masking Keitel's real thoughts. It was a reaction he had not expected. He knew exactly who Keitel was switching his attention to.

  'The other secretary?' he queried.

  'I use the word secretary in a different sense, I am referring to Christa Lundt who personally notes down the Fuhrer's orders..'

  'How old would Fraulein Lundt be?' Hartmann asked.

  'Her early twenties, I suppose.' Keitel looked irritated and puzzled. 'What significance is there in her age?'

  'Too young!'

  The Abwehr officer closed his book after making a slashing motion as though deleting a name. In fact he had crossed out a doodle of Keitel decorated with a monocle. He put away the notebook and extracted his pipe again.

  'I don't follow your reasoning,' Keitel protested. 'What has age to do with tracking down a hypothetical Soviet spy?'

  'Hypothetical?' Hartmann enquired sharply.

  'You have no proof of his - or her - existence..


  'You are challenging the Fuhrer's unalterable conviction - I use his very words - that there is a Soviet spy passing details of our order of battle to the Red Army?'

  Hartmann could not have been more genial as he stirred his bulk in the chair as though soon to leave. He could not have said anything more likely to throw Keitel on the defensive - the oblique suggestion that he was questioning the Fuhrer's judgement. Hartmann held his dead pipe and moved his fingers round the bowl while he watched his victim.

  'I said nothing which could possibly be construed to have meant what you so outrageously suggested.. Keitel protested.

  'Words are strange things, Field Marshal, especially when reported second-hand to a third party. I should know - I am a professional interrogator. Was it not Richelieu who said, give me six lines any man has written and I will hang him?'

  `You were pointing the finger at Fraulein Lundt,' Keitel snapped.

  'No - with respect, you first mentioned the girl. As to her age, my organization is convinced any Soviet spy who has penetrated this far must be much older - someone planted by the Soviet underground years ago in the hope that one day they would reach the dizzy heights. You suffer from vertigo, Field Marshal?'

  'Certainly not, and this interview..

  'Is now at an end,' Hartmann broke in quickly as he stood up and collected cap and coat from the wall- rack. 'I shall, of course, in due course inform the Fuhrer of our interview. May I bid you good night?'

  It was the perfect note on which to take his leave, Hartmann reflected as he walked into the clammy cold of the compound outside and closed the door behind him. Keitel would remember most vividly the Abwehr man's last enigmatic remark - a remark calculated to disturb any man with a guilty conscience.

  * * *

  'Mein Fuhrer,' said Bormann, 'your predecessor has made arrangements for an Abwehr officer to be brought in from outside to check security here. The officer has arrived, a Major Hartmann. He is now prowling round the encampment..'

  'Security here needs checking?' demanded Hitler.

  suggest we have this Hartmann flown straight back to Berlin,' Bormann said. 'He could be dangerous to you - he is the Abwehr's cleverest agent..'

  It was one o'clock in the morning and the second Hitler paced back and forth inside his room listening without commenting - a favourite technique of the Fuhrer's until his guest ran out of words. He would then deliver his own views in a non-stop monologue.

  'There have been rumours of a Soviet agent infiltrating the Wolf's Lair,' Bormann continued. 'Your predecessor intuitively sensed that something was wrong...'

  'So! You suggest we send this Hartmann back as soon as he arrives? You further suggest I turn the Englishman, Lindsay, over to the Gestapo? I cancel two major decisions the Fuhrer took within hours of my landing - thus creating a hotbed of gossip and rumour just when we are fighting to make everything appear normal?'

  Bormann was appalled and amazed. Appalled at his own lack of foresight. Amazed at Heinz Kuby's reaction - which would have been the same mental process followed by the Fuhrer who had recently died during the explosion of the plane from Smolensk. Kuby continued pacing as he built up his monologue.

  'We shall do the exact opposite of what you suggest. Lindsay is to remain here - treated with all due consideration - until I am ready to interview him. Before that - possibly tomorrow afternoon when I have taken my nap - I want to see Hartmann. Meantime, he is to continue his investigation..'

  'The Fuhrer armed him with a document which confers plenipotentiary powers. He can question any-

  one - even men like Jodl...'

  'Better and better! I must urge him to pursue his interrogations at length and with the utmost vigour! Don't you see, Bormann, this is a further distraction which will keep people occupied until they accept me for ever! No more argument! I have spoken. By order of the Fuhrer!'

  'I will see to it at once..'

  'If he has plenipotentiary powers, Bormann...' A half-smile on Hitler's face held a touch of malice as he glanced at the small, plump man - an expression which further startled Bormann since it was so characteristic of the Fuhrer in a certain mood when no one was safe from his victims. '... then,' Hitler continued, 'Hartmann can, if he is so minded, question you.'

  'As the repository of your secrets, that I would resist..'

  'The document specifically excludes you then from this security investigation?'

  'Well, no..'

  'Let us hope he does not end up by arresting you!'

  Bormann subsided, stupefied by the way Hitler was exploiting all possible circumstances to mask his own impersonation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Locate the secret headquarters of the Fuhrer..

  Identify who is directing the German military machine...'

  This was the scenario Lindsay had been given before he left the haven of Ryder Street, London, by Colonel Browne of the SIS. Lindsay found himself using the word scenario in his thinking because the whole atmosphere at the Wolf's Lair was so theatrical - all the chief characters seemed to be playing a part.

  A fortnight after his arrival he had positive answers to the two questions London was so anxious to know. The Wolf's Lair was hidden in the horrific pine-woods of East Prussia where the mist never seemed to lift, turning day into night.

  From his conversations with Guensche, the Fuhrer's Adjutant; the mysterious Christa Lundt; from remarks dropped by Martin Bormann and his own observations of the submissive attitudes of Keitel and Jodl - from all these indications the Englishman now knew Hitler himself personally took every major decision.

  'When you have obtained this information,' Browne had informed him blandly, 'you make your way to Munich and contact our agent. You go to the front of the Frauenkirche at exactly eleven o'clock in the morning on a Monday. You light a cigarette and put it in your mouth with your left hand. After a few puffs you throw it away and crush out the stub with your left foot. The agent will introduce his presence - or her presence - by telling you his name, Paco. You reply, "When in Rome". You will then be under the control of Paco who will pass you across the Swiss border..'

  'And supposing I have been taken there by the Gestapo?' Lindsay had queried.

  Browne had fiddled with objects on his desk before replying. It was a contingency he had not overlooked, but Browne preferred to wrap up unpleasant topics in oblique language. He had never been in the field.

  'That possibility has been catered for,' he said, not looking at Lindsay. Browne was conscious of the fact that, however long the war lasted, he, personally, would never be sent 'over the top' - would never be dropped behind enemy lines and maybe end his life tortured to extinction slowly in some filthy Gestapo cell; which was the prospect facing the man who sat opposite him. He cleared his throat and continued.

  'If it came to that - and you have revealed the existence of our agent, Paco - they might take you to the Frauenkirche to keep the rendezvous. You would simply light the cigarette with your right hand. After all, you are right-handed. You take a few puffs and then crush it under your right foot. The use of the wrong hand and foot will alert Paco. Our agent would remain under cover...'

  'Rather clever.' Lindsay automatically reached for a cigarette and inserted it in his mouth with his right hand. Suddenly conscious of his action he paused in the act of lighting up and looked at Browne. The Colonel was staring at the cigarette as though hypnotized.

  'Paco,' Lindsay went on, lighting the cigarette, 'is a man - or a woman?'

  'Better you do not have that information,' Browne said tersely.

  Lying sprawled on his bunk inside the but allocated to him at the Wolf's Lair, Lindsay recalled with great clarity Browne's petrified expression over the cigarette incident.

  God, how straightforward it had all seemed in the cosy environs of Ryder Street! Lindsay would fly - as he had done - to the area of the Berghof and make his parachute drop. With skill and luck he would obtain the information needed at the very top - Downing Street, he suspected -
and make his escape to Munich.

  He had spent hours studying the rail maps and street plans prior to his departure. There was a direct main-line rail route from Salzburg - close to Berchtesgaden - to Munich, which, in normal times took something over an hour. He carried the whole street plan of Munich in his head. Arriving in Munich he would keep the rendezvous with Paco at the earliest possible moment. Then via the underground to

  Switzerland...

  Now he was over six hundred miles north-east of Munich - lost in the bleak wastelands of East Prussia. How the hell he was going to reach Munich, Paco, Switzerland, he had no idea. And in a few hours - after a fourteen day nerve-racking wait - he was supposed to meet the Fuhrer. He was still remembering Ryder Street when the door was opened quietly, Christa Lundt slipped inside, closed the door and leaned against it, her well-shaped breasts heaving.

  'What's wrong now?'

  He was away from the bunk in seconds, watching her closely as he walked towards her. Christa's face was bloodless, but when she spoke her voice was low and controlled.

  'Why do you say now - as though I'm neurotic?' 'Get to the point..'

  'As if you - we - hadn't enough trouble with that Abwehr man, Hartmann, sniffing all over the place and asking endless questions. He's been here two weeks, you know..'

  'Get to the point,' he repeated.

  'The Gestapo have arrived. They're enquiring about you..'

  All thoughts of Ryder Street were wiped from his mind.

  In wartime the turn of great events often hinges on the most minor of incidents. The same night Colonel Browne came within an ace of being killed.

  It was nine o'clock at night. Still March, but only just. Browne was returning to his Ryder Street office and to reach his destination he had to cross Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare. He had had a tricky time making his way down Dover Street. A heavy mist had drifted up from the river - almost a fog.

  He could see his hand in front of his face - but it was a blurred hand. Moisture settled on his skin and the dank atmosphere chilled. There seemed to be no one else about. It was very silent - the dense grey vapour muffled all sound. Browne plodded on, feeling his way. It was too damnably easy to drift off the pavement and find yourself in the middle of the road without knowing it.