Where Eagles Dare

Slowly, with apparently infinite labour, the cable-car completed the last few feet of its ascent and passed in under the roof of the Schloss Adler header station. It juddered to a halt, the front door opened and the passengers disembarked. They moved from the header station--built into the north-west base of the castle--up through a steeply-climbing twenty-five foot tunnel which had heavy iron doors and guards at either end. Passing the top gateway, they emerged into the courtyard, the entrance of which was (sealed off by a massively-barred iron gate guarded by heavily armed soldiers and Dobermann pinchers. The courtyard itself was brightly illuminated by the light of dozens of uncurtained interior windows. In the very centre of the courtyard stood the helicopter which had that morning brought Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer to the Schloss Adler. Under the cover of a heavy tarpaulin -- momentarily unnecessary because of the cessation of the snow -- a dungareed figure, possibly the pilot, worked on the helicopter engine with the aid of a small but powerful arc-lamp.

Mary turned to von Brauchitsch, still holding a proprietary grip on her arm, and smiled ruefully.

'So many soldiers. So many men -- and, I'm sure, so few women. What happens if I want to escape from the licentious soldiery?'

'Easy.' Von Brauchitsch really did have, Mary thought dully, a most charming smile. 'Just jump from your bedroom window. One hundred metres straight down and there you are. Free!'

The ladies' cloakroom in the station was a superlatively nondescript place, bleakly furnished with hard-backed benches, chairs, deal tables and a sagging wooden floor. The Spartans would have turned up their noses at it, in its sheer lack of decorative inspiration it could have been surpassed only by its counterpart in England. The expiring remains of a fire burnt dully in a black enamel stove.

Smith was seated by the central table, radio beside him, consulting a small book by the light of a hooded pencil-flash and writing on a slip of paper. He checked what he had written, straightened and handed the

'Burn it. Page by page.'

'Page by page? All?' Surprise in the saturnine face. 'You won't be requiring this any more?'

Smith shook his head and began to crank the radio handle.

There was a very much better fire in the Operations Room in Whitehall, a pine-log fire with a healthy crackle and flames of a respectable size. But the two men sitting on either side of the fire were a great deal less alert than the two men sitting by the dying embers of the fire in the Bavarian Alps. Admiral Rolland and Colonel Wyatt-Turner were frankly dozing, eyes shut, more asleep than awake. But they came to full wakeful-ness, jerking upright, almost instantly, when the long-awaited call-sign came through on the big transceiver manned by the civilian operator at the far end of the room. They glanced at each other, heaved themselves out of their deep arm-chairs.

'Broadsword calling Danny Boy.' The voice on the radio was faint but clear. 'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. You hear me? Over.'

The civilian operator spoke into his microphone, 'We hear you. Over.'

'Code. Ready? Over.'

'Ready. Over.'

Rolland and Wyatt-Turner were by the operator's shoulder now, his eyes fixed on his pencil as he began to make an instantaneous transcription of the meaningless jumble of letters beginning to come over the radio. Swiftly the message was spelt Out : TORRANCE-SMYTHE MURDERED. THOMAS CHRISTIANSEN AND CARRACIOLA CAPTURED.

As if triggered by an unheard signal, the eyes of Rolland and Wyatt-Turner lifted and met. Their faces

ENEMY BELIEVE SCHAFFER AND SELF DEAD, the message continued. EFFECTING ENTRY INSIDE THE HOUR. PLEASE HAVE TRANSPORT STANDING BY NINETY MINUTES. OVER.

Admiral Rolland seized the microphone from the operator.

'Broadsword! Broadsword! Do you know who I am, Broadsword?'

'I know who you are, sir. Over.'

'Pull out, Broadsword. Pull out now. Save yourselves. Over.'

'You -- must -- be -- joking.' The words were spoken in slow motion, a perceptible pause between each pair. 'Over.'

'You heard me.' Rolland's voice was almost as slow and distinct. 'You heard me. That was an order, Broadsword.'

'Mary is already inside. Over and out.'

The transceiver went dead.

'He's gone, sir,' the operator said quietly.

'He's gone,' Rolland repeated mechanically. 'Dear God, he's gone.'

It's all my fault.' The Colonel's voice was barely distinguishable. 'All my fault.'

'We did what we had to do. All our fault, Colonel. It was my idea.' He gazed into the fire. 'Now this -this on top of everything else.'

'Our worst day,' Wyatt-Turner agreed heavily. 'Our worst day ever. Maybe I'm too old.'

'Maybe we're all too old.' With his right forefinger Holland began to tick off the fingers of his left hand. 'H.Q. Commander-in-Chief, Portsmouth. Secret alarm triggered. Nothing missing.'

'Nothing taken,' Wyatt-Turner agreed wearily. 'But the vigil emulsion plates show photostat copies taken.'