Where Eagles Dare

'I am sorry, my dear Maria.' A troubled contrition had replaced his habitual smile. 'You should have told

'I'm afraid I'm not used to it,' Mary said ruefully. 'I'll be all right when I've lain down.'

'Of course, of course. Come, my dear, let me escort you to your room.'

'No, no!' Then, realising she had spoken with uncalled-for vehemence, she smiled again and touched his hand. 'I'll be all right. Really I will.'

'Captain von Brauchitsch knows what's best.' The face was serious but friendly, the voice authoritative but with an underlying tone of humour, and Mary knew there was no answer to it. 'I positively insist. Come along.'

He tucked her arm protectively under his arid led her from the armoury.

Arm in arm they walked along the passage-way leading from the ztmouiy-cam-Kaffeestube towards the central block of the castle. The passage-way, in contrast to the last time they had walked along there, was completely deserted and Mary commented on the fact.

'It's the witches on their broomsticks,' von Brauchitsch laughed. The commandant hasn't caught them yet, but give him another few years and you never know. All those poor souls you saw being hauled out of the armoury are now probably poking about the eaves or climbing up the flagpoles. You never know where spies get to nowadays.'

'You seem to treat the possibility lightly enough,' Mary said.

'I'm a Gestapo officer. I'm paid and trained to use my head, not an overheated imagination,' he said curtly, then squeezed her arm and apologised. 'Sorry, that tone of voice was aimed at someone else, not you.' He halted abruptly, peered out a window into the courtyard and said: 'Now that is strange.'

'What's strange?'

'I suppose helicopters need repairing from time to time the same as any other machine.' Her throat was suddenly dry and she wished von Brauchitsch wouldn't hold her so closely: he was bound to notice her accelerating heart-beat. 'What's so unusual about that?'

'What's so unusual is that there was no one working on that machine almost half an hour ago when we first passed by here,' von Brauchitsch said. 'Unheard of for a Reichsmarschall's personal pilot to walk away and leave a job half done.'

'Would it be unheard of for him to take a piece of mechanism inside and repair it under cover?' Mary asked sweetly. 'Or perhaps you haven't seen a thermometer tonight?'

'I'm getting as bad as the old commandant and his witchhunts,' von Brauchitsch said sadly. He moved on, shaking his head. 'You see before you a horrible example of the dangers of being too long in my business: the obvious answer is far too obvious for shrewd and cunning intellects like ours. I must remember that later on tonight.'

'You're going to exercise this great mind again tonight?' Mary asked lightly.

'In there, as a matter of fact.' Von Brauchitsch nodded as they passed by an ornate door. "The gold drawing-room.' He glanced at his watch. 'In twenty minutes! So soon! Your charming company, Fraulein.'

"Thank you, kind sir. You -- you have an appointment?' Her heart was back at its old tricks again.

'An evening of musical appreciation. Even the Gestapo has its finer side. We are going to listen to a nightingale sing.' He quickened his pace. 'Sorry, Fraulein, but I've just remembered I've one or two reports to prepare.'

"The pleasure was one-sided,' von Brauchitsch protested gallantly. 'Mine and mine alone.' He stopped outside her bedroom door, took her hand in his and smiled. 'Goodnight, my dear Maria. You really are the most charming girl.'

'Goodnight.' She returned smile for smile. 'And thank you.'

'We really must get to know each other better,' von Brauchitsch said in farewell. He opened her door, bowed, kissed her hand, gently closed the door behind her and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Very much better, my dear Maria,' he said softly to himself. 'Very much better indeed.'

Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen bent over their notebooks and scribbled furiously. At least the first two did: Christiansen had not yet recovered from the blow on the head and was making heavy weather of his writing. Kramer, who was standing apart with Smith and talking to him in low tones, looked at them in curiosity and with just a trace of uneasiness.

'They seem to be finding plenty of inspiration from somewhere,' he said carefully.

'The spectacle of an open grave is often thought-provoking," Smith said cynically.

'I am afraid I don't quite follow.'

'Do you know what those men will be fifteen minutes from now?'

'I'm tired,' Kramer said. He sounded it. 'Please don't play with words, Captain Schmidt.'

'You wax lyrical, Captain,' Kramer grumbled. He paced up and down for almost a minute, no longer troubling to watch the men at the table, then stopped and planted himself squarely in front of Smith. 'All right,' he said wearily. 'I've been on the spit long enough. I confess I'm baffled. Out with it. What in God's name is behind all this?'