Where Eagles Dare

'You knew about this American general, Carnaby?' Smith's face, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in anger, was within six inches of Weissner's. 'How?' He almost spat the word out.

'I dined in the Schloss Adler last night. I--'

Smith looked at him in total incredulity.

'Colonel Paul Kramer told you? He actually talked to you about him?' Weissner nodded wordlessly 'Admiral Canaris' Chief of Staff! And now everybody knows. God in heaven, heads will roll for this.' He screwed the heels of his palms into his eyes, lowered his hands wearily to his thighs, gazed ahead unseeingly and shook his head, very slowly. This is too big, even for me.' He fished out his pass and handed it to Weissner, who examined it in the beam of a none too steady torch. 'Back to the barracks at once! I must get through to Berlin immediately. My uncle will know what to do.'

'Your uncle?' By what seemed a great effort of will Weissner looked up from the pass he held in his hand: his voice was no steadier than the torch. 'Heinrick Himmler?'

The car moved off. Anything that the nephew of the dreaded Heinrich Himmler, Chief of the Gestapo, said was good enough for the driver.

'Smith turned to the guard by his side. Take that damned thing out of my ribs!'

Angrily, he snatched the gun away. The guard, who had also heard of Himmler, meekly yielded up the machine-pistol. One second later he was doubled up in helpless retching agony as the butt of the Schmeisser smashed into his stomach and another second later Colonel Weissner was pinned against the window of his Mercedes as the muzzle of the Schmeisser ground into his right ear.

Smith said: 'If your men move, you die."

'Okay.' Schaffer's calm voice from the front seat. 'I have their guns.'

'Stop the car,' Smith ordered.

The car came to a halt. Through the windscreen Smith could see the lights of the barracks guard-room, now less than two hundred yards away. He gave Weissner a prod with the Schmeisser muzzle.

'Out!'

Weissner's face was a mask of chagrined rage but he was too experienced a soldier even to hesitate. He got out.

'Three paces from the car,' Smith said. 'Face down in the snow. Hands clasped behind your head.

Twenty seconds later, Schaffer at the wheel, they were on their way, leaving three men face downwards in the snow and the fourth, Smith's erstwhile guard, still doubled up in agony by the roadside.

'A creditable effort, young Himmler,' Schaffer said approvingly.

'I'll never be that lucky again,' Smith said soberly. 'Take your time passing the barracks. We don't want any of the sentries getting the wrong idea.'

At a steady twenty miles an hour they passed the main gates and then the secondary gates, apparently, as far as Smith could see, without exciting any comment. Just behind the three-pointed star on the car's radiator flew a small triangular pennant, the Camp Commandant's personal standard, and no one, it was safe to assume, would question the comings and goings of Colonel Weissner.

For half a mile or so beyond the secondary gates the road ran northwards in a straight line with, on the left, a sheer hundred-foot cliff dropping down into the waters of the Blau See, and, to the right, a line of pines, not more than fifty yards wide, backing up against another vertical cliff-face which soared up until lost in the snow and the darkness.

At the end of the half-mile straight, the road ahead swept sharply to the right to follow an indentation in the Blau See's shore-line, a dangerous corner marked by white fencing which would normally have been conspicuous enough by night-time but which was at the moment all but invisible against the all enveloping background of snow. Schaffer braked for the corner. A thoughtful expression crossed his face and he applied still heavier pressure to the brake pedal and glanced at Smith.

'An excellent idea.' It was Smith's turn to be approving. 'We'll make an agent out of you yet.'

The Mercedes stopped. Smith gathered up the Schmeissers and pistols they had taken from Weissner and his men and got out. Schaffer wound down the driver's window, released the hand-brake, engaged gear and jumped out as the car began to move. With his right arm through the window Schaffer walked and then, as the car began to gather speed, ran along beside the Mercedes, his hand on the steering wheel. Twenty feet from the cliff edge he gave a last steering correction, jerked the quadrant hand throttle wide open and leapt aside as the car accelerated. The wooden fence never had a chance. With a