Where Eagles Dare

'A fine time to ask me,' Smith said. 'We'll soon find out, won't we?' He switched the machine to 'Send', selected the ultra short wave band and lined up his transmitting frequency. He opened another switch and picked up a microphone.

'Broadsword calling Danny Boy,' he said. 'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. Can you hear me? Can you hear me?'

'We got callers, boss,' Schaffer said apologetically. 'Don't think I got any but I sure as hell started their adrenalin moving around.'

'Broadsword calling Danny Boy,' Smith said urgently, insistently. 'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. For God's sake, why don't they answer?'

'They can't come round the corner of the passage without being sawn in half.' Schaffer spoke comfortably from his uncomfortable horizontal position on the floor. 'I can hold them off to Christmas. So what's the hurry?'

'Broadsword calling Danny Boy. Broadsword calling Danny Boy. How long do you think it's going to be before someone cuts the electricity?'

'For God's sake, Danny Boy,' Schaffer implored. 'Why don't you answer? Why don't you answer?'

'Danny Boy calling Broadsword.' The voice on the radio was calm and loud and clear, so free from interference that it might have come from next door. 'Danny Boy -- '

'One hour, Danny Boy,' Smith interrupted. 'One hour. Understood? Over.'

'Understood. You have it, Broadsword?' The voice was unmistakably that of Admiral Holland's. 'Over.'

'I have it,' Smith said. 'I have it all.'

'All sins are forgiven. Mother Machree coming to meet you. Leaving now.'

'Static,' Smith said. He didn't bother to switch off. He rose, took three paces back and fired a two-second burst from his machine-pistol, his face twisting in pain as the recoil slammed into his shattered hand. No one would ever use that particular radio again. He, glanced briefly at Schaffer, but only briefly: the American's face, though thoughtful, was calm and unworried: there were those who might require helpful words, encouragement and reassurance, but Schaffer was not one of them. Smith moved swiftly across to the window and lifted the lower sash with his left hand.

The moon was almost obscured behind some darkly drifting cloud. A thin weak light filtered down into the half-seen obscurity of the valley below. Once again the snow was beginning to fall, gently. The air was taut, brittle, in the intensity of its coldness, an Arctic chill that bit to the bone. The icy wind that gusted through the room could have come off the polar ice-cap. ,

They were on the east side of the castle, Smith realised, the side remote from the cable-car header station. The base of the volcanic plug was shrouded in a gloom so deep that it was impossible to be sure whether or not the guards and Dobermanns were patrolling down there: and, for the purposes of present survival, it didn't really matter. Smith withdrew from the window, pulled the nylon from the kit-bag, tied one end securely to the metal leg of the radio table, threw the remainder of the rope out into the night then, with his left hand, thoroughly scuffed and rubbed away the frozen encrusted snow on both the window-sill and for two or three feet beneath it: it would, he thought, have to be a hypercritical eye that didn't immediately register the impression that u there had been fairly heavy and recent traffic over the sill. He wondered, vaguely, whether the rope reached as far as the ground and dismissed the thought as soon as it had occurred to him: again, it didn't really matter.

He crossed the room to where Schaffer lay spread-eagled in the doorway. The key was in the lock on the inside of the door and the lock, he observed with satisfaction, was on the same massive scale as everything else in the Schloss Adler. He said to Schaffer: 'Time to close the door.'

'Let's wait till they show face again then discourage them some more,' Schaffer suggested. 'It's been a couple of minutes since the last lad peeked his head round the corner there.

Another peek, another salvo from Schaffer and it might give us another couple of minutes' grace -enough time to make it feasible for us to have shinned down that little rope there and made our getaway.'

'Loss of blood,' Schaffer said briefly, then added, unsympathetically: 'And all that brandy you guzzled back there. When it comes to opening pores -- '

He broke off and lay very still, lowering his head a fraction to sight along the barrel of his Schmeisser. He said softly: 'Give me your torch, boss.'

'What is it?' Smith whispered. He handed Schaffer the torch.

'Discretion,' Schaffer murmured. He switched on the torch and placed it on the floor, pushing it as far away from himself as he could. 'I reckon if I were in their place I'd be discreet, too. There's a stick poking round the corner of the passage and the stick has a mirror tied to it. Only, they haven't got it angled right.'