Where Eagles Dare

Kramer left him abruptly, crossed the room, to Rosemeyer and sat down in the chair beside him. For perhaps two minutes they talked together in low tones, occasionally glancing in Smith's direction. Kramer it was, Smith could see, who did most of the talking, Rosemeyer who did all of the reacting. Kramer, Smith reflected, must be putting it across rather well: a printed diagram could have been no clearer than the successive expressions of curiosity, puzzlement, astonishment and, finally, shocked realisation that reflected on Rosemeyer's face. After some seconds' silence, both men rose to their feet and walked across to where Smith stood. The Reichsmarschall, Smith saw, was a little paler than normal, and when he spoke it required neither a sensitive ear nor imagination to detect a slight tremor in his voice.

He said: “This is an incredible story, Captain Smith, incredible. But inevitable. It must be. The only explanation that can cover all the facts, put all the pieces of the jig-saw together.” He attempted a smile. “To change the metaphor, I must say that it comes as a considerable shock to find that one is the missing key in a baffling code. I am eternally in your debt, Captain Smith.”

“Germany is eternally in your debt,” Kramer said. “You have done her a great service. We shall not forget this. I am sure the Fuhrer will personally wish to honour you with some mark of his esteem.”

“You are too kind, gentlemen,” Smith murmured. “To do my duty is reward enough.” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps our Fuhrer will give me two or three weeks' leave—the way I feel tonight my nerves aren't what they were. But if you gentlemen will excuse me—my present task is not yet completed.”

He moved away and walked slowly up and down, brandy glass in hand, behind the three men bent over the table. From time to time he glanced at one of the note-books and smiled in weary cynicism, neither the smile nor the significance of the smile going unremarked by anyone in the room except the three writing men. He stopped behind Thomas, shook his head in disbelief and said, “My God!”

“Let's finish it now!” Rosemeyer demanded impatiently.

“If you please, Reichsmarschall, let us play this charade out to the bitter end.”

“You have your reasons?”

“I most certainly have.”

Briskly, but not hurriedly, von Brauchitsch walked away from Mary's room, his footfalls echoing crisply on the stone-flagged corridor. Once round the corner of the corridor he broke into a run.

He reached the courtyard and ran across to the helicopter. There was no one there. Quickly he ran up a few steps and peered through the Perspex cupola of the cockpit. He reached ground again and hailed the nearest guard, who came stumbling across, a leashed Doberman trailing behind him.

“Quickly,” von Brauchitsch snapped. “Have you seen the pilot?”

“No, Herr Major,” the guard answered nervously. He was an elderly man, long past front-line service and held the Gestapo in great fear. “Not for a long time.”

“What do you mean by a long time?” von Brauchitsch demanded.

“I don't know. That's to say,” the guard added hastily, “half an hour. More. Three-quarters, I would say, Herr Major.”

“Damnation,” von Brauchitsch swore. “So long. Tell me, when the pilot is carrying out repairs is there a place near here he uses as a workshop?”

“Yes, sir.” The guard was eager to oblige with some positive information. “That door there, sir. The old grain store.”

“Is he in there now?”

“I don't know, Herr Major.”

“You should know,” von Brauchitsch said coldly. “It's your job to keep your eyes open. Well, just don't stand there, oaf! Go and find out!”

The elderly guard trotted away while von Brauchitsch, shaking his head angrily over his impatience with the old soldier, crossed the courtyard and questioned the guards at the gate, three tough, competent, young storm-troopers who, unlike the patrol guard, could be guaranteed not to miss anything. He received the same negative answer there.

He strode back towards the helicopter and intercepted the elderly guard running from the old grain store.

“There's nobody there, Herr Major.” He was slightly out of breath and highly apprehensive at being the bearer of what might be ill news. “It's empty.”

“It would be,” von Brauchitsch nodded. He patted the old shoulder and smiled. “No fault of yours, my friend. You keep a good watch.”

Unhurriedly, almost, now, he made for the main entrance door, pulling out a set of master keys as he went. He struck oil with the first door he opened. The pilot lay there, still unconscious, the smashed distributor cap lay beside him, the pair of overalls lying on top of him a mute but entirely sufficient explanation of the way in which the distributor cap had been removed without detection. Von Brauchitsch took a torch from a long rack on the wall, cut the pilot's bonds, freed his gag and left him lying there with the door wide open. The passage outside was a heavily travelled one, and someone was bound to be along soon.