Where Eagles Dare

Smith looked up from the bleeding mangled hand that Mary was re-bandaging with the plane's first aid kit and said to the Colonel: “It was good of you to come in person to meet us, sir.”

“It wasn't good of me at all,” Wyatt-Turner said frankly. “I'd have gone mad if I'd stayed another minute in London—I had to know. It was I who sent you all out here.” He sat without speaking for some time, then went on heavily: “Torrance-Smythe gone, Sergeant Harrod, and now, you say, Carraciola, Christiansen and Thomas. All dead. A heavy price, Smith, a terrible price. My best men.”

“All of them, sir?” Smith asked softly.

“I'm getting old.” Wyatt-Turner shook his head wearily and drew a hand across his eyes. “Did you find out who—”

“Carraciola.”

“Carraciola! Ted Carraciola? Never! I can't believe it.”

“And Christiansen.” Smith's voice was still quiet, still even. “And Thomas.”

“And Christiansen? And Thomas?” He looked consideringly at Smith. “You've been through a lot, Major Smith. You're not well.”

“I'm not as well as I was,” Smith admitted. “But I was well enough when I killed them?”

“You—you killed them?”

“I've killed a traitor before now. You know that.”

“But—but traitors! All three of them. Impossible. I can't believe it! I won't believe it!”

“Then maybe you'll believe this, sir.” Smith produced one of the note-books from his tunic and handed it to Wyatt-Turner. “The names and addresses or contacts of every German agent in southern England and the names of all British agents in northwest Europe who have been supplanted by German agents. You will recognise Carraciola's writing. He wrote this under duress.”

Slowly, like a man in a dream, Wyatt-Turner reached out and took the note-book. For three minutes he examined the contents, leafing slowly, almost reluctantly through the pages, then finally laid the book down with a sigh.

“This is the most important document in Europe, the most important document I have ever seen.” Wyatt-Turner sighed. “The nation is deeply in your debt, Major Smith.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Or would have been. It's a great pity it will never have the chance to express its gratitude.” He lifted the Sten from his knees and pointed it at Smith's heart. “You will do nothing foolish, will you, Major Smith?”

“What in God's name—” Carpenter twisted in his seat and stared at Wyatt-Turner in startled and total disbelief.

“Concentrate on your flying, my dear Wing Commander.” Wyatt-Turner waved the Sten gently in Carpenter's direction. “Your course will do for the present. We'll be landing at Lille airport within the hour.”

“The guy's gone nuts!” Schaffer's voice was a shocked whisper.

“If he has,” Smith said drily, “he went nuts some years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the most dangerous spy in Europe, the most successful double agent of all time.” He ;paused for reaction, but the silence remained unbroken: the enormity of the revelation of Wyatt-Turner's duplicity was too great for immediate comprehension. Smith continued: “Colonel Wyatt-Turner, you will be court-martialled this afternoon, sentenced, removed to the Tower then taken out, blindfolded and shot at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“You knew?” Wyatt-Turner's affable self-confidence had completely deserted him and his voice, low arid strained, was barely distinguishable above the clamour of the engines. “You knew about me?”

“I knew about you,” Smith nodded. “But we all knew about you, didn't we, Colonel? Three years, you claimed, behind the German lines, served with the Wehrmacht and finally penetrated the Berlin High Command. Sure you did. With the help of the Wehrmacht and the High Command. But when the tide of war turned and you could no longer feed the Allies with false and misleading reports about proposed German advances, then you were allowed to escape back to England to feed the Germans true and accurate reports about Allied plans——and give them all the information they required to round up British agents in north-west Europe. How many million francs do you have in your numbered account in Zurich, Colonel?”

Wing Commander Carpenter stared straight ahead through the windscreen and said very slowly: “Frankly, old chap, this is preposterous.”

“Try batting an eyelid and see just how preposterous that Sten gun is,” Smith suggested. He looked at Wyatt-Turner again. “You underestimated Admiral Rolland, I'm afraid. He's had his suspicions about you and the four section leaders of Department C for months. But he was wrong about Torrance-Smythe.”

“Guess away.” Wyatt-Turner had recovered his composure and most of his self-confidence. “It'll pass the time till we get to Lille.”