Where Eagles Dare

“Unfortunately for you, there is no guess-work. Admiral Rolland recalled me—and Mary—from Italy: he could no longer be sure of anyone in London. You know how corruption spreads? Played it very clever, did the Admiral He told you he had his suspicions about one of his section leaders, but didn't know which. So, when General Carnaby crashed, he put up to you the idea of sending the section officers to the rescue—and made damn sure that you never once had the opportunity of talking to any of them in private before they took off.”

“That—that was why I was called in?” Schaffer looked as if he had been sand-bagged. “Because you couldn't trust—”

“For all we knew, M.I.6 was riddled ... Well, Colonel, you weren't too happy until Rolland asked you to pick the leader. So you picked me. Rolland knew you would. You'd only just met me for the first time, but you knew from Kesselring's military intelligence chief, through your pal Admiral Canaris, that I was their top double agent. Or thought you did, Rolland was the only man on either side who knew I wasn't. For you, I was the ideal choice. Rolland made certain that you didn't have the chance of talking to me either, but you weren't worried. You knew that I would know what to do.” Smith smiled bleakly. “I'm happy to say I did. It must have been quite a shock to your system this afternoon when he told you what I really was.”

“You knew that? You knew all that?” Wyatt-Turner's newfound composure had vanished, his voice was quiet and vicious. He lifted the Sten slightly. “What goes on, Smith?”

“All pre-arranged to force your hand. We had everything—except proof—about you. I got that proof this evening; Colonel Kramer knew that we were coming, knew we were after General Carnaby.” He nodded towards Jones. “Incidentally, meet Cartwright Jones, an American actor.”

“What?” Wyatt-Turner forced out the word as if a pair of powerful hands were squeezing on his wind-pipe.

“General Carnaby is spending a quiet weekend at the Admiral's country house in Wiltshire. As a stand-in, Mr. Jones was quite admirable. He had them all as deceived as that faked plane crash—you will have realised by now that it was a deliberate crash-landing.” Wyatt-Turner tried to speak, but the words failed to come: his mouth was working and the colour had drained from his ruddy face. “And why did Kramer know? He knew because you had informed Berlin as soon as Rolland had put the plan to you. Nobody else had the chance to. And he knew that we would be in ‘Zum Wilden Hirsch’ this evening. He knew because I told you on the radio broadcast this morning and you lost no time in passing the good word on.”

“Are you sure?” Heidi asked. “Couldn't the informant have been whichever of the men—Carraciola or Christiansen or Thomas—who killed Torrance-Smythe. There's a phone box just outside the inn.”

“I know. No, he didn't have time. I left the inn for exactly seven minutes. Three minutes after I'd left, Torrance-Smythe did the same—to follow one of the three others he'd just seen leaving. Smithy was clever and he knew something was far wrong. He—”

“How did he know?” Schaffer demanded.

“We'll never be sure. I think we'll find that he was a highly-skilled lip-reader. Anyway, he caught the man he'd seen leaving in the phone booth outside the Post Office—before he'd had time to get through to either Weissner or Kramer. There was a fight to the death. By the time the killer had dragged Smithy around to the back and returned to the booth, someone else was occupying it. I saw him. So the killer had to go back into the inn. Kramer it was who told Weissner—and the Colonel here who told Kramer.”

“Very interesting.” There was a sneer in Wyatt-Turner's voice, but a sneer belied by the deep unease in his face. “Fascinating, in fact. Quite finished, Major Smith?”

“Finished.” Smith sighed. “You just had to come to meet us, hadn't you, Colonel? This was the last door to life left open to you. In my final broadcast I told the Admiral ‘I have it all’. He told you what that meant—all the names, all the addresses. We could never have got at you through Carraciola, Christiansen or Thomas—they were too close to you in M.I.6, you were too cagey and they never knew who they were working for. You used intermediaries—and all their names are in that book. You knew they'd put the finger on you—when it's a choice between taking a walk to the gallows and talking—well, it's not much of a choice, is it?”

Wyatt-Turner didn't answer. He turned to Carpenter and said: “Lay off a course for Lille airport.”

“Don't bother,” Smith said.

Wyatt-Turner lined his Sten on Smith. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you now.”

“I can do that,” Smith nodded. “Why do you think that Admiral Rolland accompanied you to the airport. He never has before.”

“Go on.” Wyatt's voice was hard, abrupt, but his eyes were sick, sick with the sudden certainty of defeat and death.