Where Eagles Dare

The big black Mercedes command car swept along the snow packed road that paralleled the Blau See, the windscreen wipers just coping with the thickly-swirling snow that rushed greyly back at the windscreen through powerful headlight beams. It was an expensive car and a very comfortable one, but neither Schaffer up front nor Smith in the rear seat experienced any degree of comfort whatsoever, either mental or physical. On the mental side there was the bitter prospect of the inevitable firing squad and the knowledge that their mission was over even before it had properly begun: on the physical side they were cramped in the middle of their seats, Schaffer flanked by driver and guard, Smith by Colonel Weissner and guard, and both Smith and Schaffer were suffering from pain in the lower ribs: the owners of the Schmeisser machine-pistols, the muzzles of which were grinding into the captives' sides, had no compunction about letting their presence be known.

They were now, Smith estimated, half-way between village and barracks. Another thirty seconds and they would be through the barrack gates. Thirty seconds. No more.

“Stop this car!” Smith's voice was cold, authoritative with an odd undertone of menace. “Immediately, do you hear? I must think.”

Colonel Weissner, startled, turned and stared at him. Smith ignored him completely. His face reflected an intensely frowning concentration, a thin-lipped anger barely under control, the face of a man to whom the thought of disobedience of his curt instruction was unthinkable: most certainly not the face of a man going to captivity and death. Weissner hesitated, but only fractionally. He gave an order and the big car began to slow.

“You oaf! You utter idiot!” Smith's tone, shaking with anger, was low and vicious, so low that only Weissner could hear it. “You've almost certainly ruined everything and, by God, if you have, Weissner, you'll be without a regiment tomorrow !”

The car pulled into the roadside and stopped. Ahead, the red tail lights of the command car in front vanished into a snow-filled darkness. Weissner said brusquely, but with a barely perceptible tremor of agitation in his voice: “What the devil are you talking about?”

“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?”

“Who do you think?” Smith snarled. “Mickey Mouse?” He dropped his voice to a low murmur. “I trust you never have the privilege of meeting him, Colonel Weissner.” He gave Weissner the benefit of a long and speculative look singularly lacking in any encouragement, then turned away and prodded the driver none too lightly in the back. “The barracks—and make it quick!”

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. Schaffer, your gun on your guard. Out beside the General, you.” This with his gun muzzle in the driver's neck.