Where Eagles Dare

“The key. Yes, the key.” Schaffer hoisted himself wearily to his feet and stood there swaying eyes half-closed, face ashen, blood trickling from both corners of his mouth. “The batteries there, I think I hid them behind the batteries. I don't know, I can't think. No, wait.” The words came in short, anguished gasps. “I didn't. I meant to, but I didn't.” He fumbled in his pockets, eventually located the key and brought it out, offering it vaguely in Carraciola's direction. Carraciola, the beginnings of a smile on his face, reached out for the key but, before he could reach it Schaffer abruptly straightened and with a convulsive jerk of his arm sent the key spinning through the open end of the station to land in the valley hundreds of feet below. Carraciola stared after the vanished key in total incredulity then, his suffused and enraged face mute evidence of his complete loss of self-control, stooped, picked up Schaffer's fallen Schmeisser and swung it viciously across the American's head and face. Schaffer fell like a tree.

“Well,” Thomas said acidly. “Now that we've got that out of our systems, we can shoot the lock away.”

“You can commit suicide with ricochets—that door's iron, man.” Carraciola had indeed got it out of his system for he was back on balance again. He paused, then smiled slowly. “What the hell are we all thinking of? Let's play it clever. If we did get through that door the first thing we'd probably collect would be a chest full of machine-gun bullets. Remember, the only people who know who we really are have bloody great doses of Nembutal inside them and are liable to remain unconscious for a long time. To the rest of the garrison we're unknowns—and to the few who saw us arrive, we're prisoners. In both cases we're automatically enemies.”

“So?” Thomas was impatient.

“So, as I say, we play it clever. We go down in this cable-car and play it clever again. We phone old Weissner. We ask him to phone the Schloss Adler, tell him where Smith is and, in case Smith does manage to get down to the village on the other cable-car after us, we ask him to have a reception committee waiting for him at the lower station. Then we go to the barracks—they're bound to have a radio there—and get in touch with you know who. Flaws?”

“Nary a flaw.” Christiansen grinned. “And then we all live happily ever afterwards. Come on, what are we waiting for?”

“Into the cable-car, you two.” Carraciola waited until they had boarded, walked across the floor until he was directly under the smashed skylight and called: “Boss!” Schaffer's silenced Luger was in his hand.

On the roof above Smith stiffened, handed the trembling Carnaby-Jones—his eyes were still screwed shut—over to the care of Mary, took two steps towards the skylight and stopped. It was Wyatt-Turner who had said of Smith that he had a built-in radar set against danger and Carraciola's voice had just started it up into instantaneous operation and had it working with a clarity and precision that would have turned Decca green with envy.

“Schaffer?” Smith called softly. “Lieutenant Schaffer? Are you there?”

“Right here, boss.” Mid-west accent, Schaffer to the life. Smith's radar-scope went into high and had it been geared to warning bells he'd have been deafened for life. He dropped to hands and knees and crawled soundlessly forward. He could see the floor of the station now. The first thing that came into his vision was a bank of batteries, then an outflung hand, then, gradually the rest of the spread-eagled form of Schaffer. Another few inches forward and he sensed as much as saw a long finger pointing in his direction and flung himself to one side. The wind from the Luger's shell rifled his hair. Down below someone cursed in anger and frustration.

“That's the last chance you'll ever have, Carraciola,” Smith said. From where he lay he could just see Schaffer's face—or the bloody mask that covered his face. It was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead. He looked dead.

“Wrong again. Merely the postponement of a pleasure. We're leaving now, Smith. I'm going to start the motor. Want Schaffer to get his—Christiansen has the Schmeisser on him. Don't try anything.”

“You make for that control panel,” Smith said, “and your first step into my line of vision will be your last. I'll cut you down, Carraciola. Schaffer's dead. I can see he's dead.”

“He's damn all of the kind dead. He's just been clobbered by a gun butt.”

“I'll cut you down,” Smith said monotonously.

“Goddam it, I tell you he's not dead!” Carraciola was exasperated now.

“I'm going to kill you,” Smith said quietly. “If I don't, the first guards through that door surely will. You can see what we've done to their precious Schloss Adler—it's well alight. Can't you guess the orders that have gone out—shoot on sight. Any stranger, shoot on sight—and shoot to kill. You're a stranger, Carraciola.”