The Dragonfly Pool

Stiefelbreich nodded. “Or that woman who looked after him. Mind you, she still thought the boy was here when we put her on the train, so she didn’t know anything then. But the main thing is that you must leave at once.”

“Trouble is, they’ve got a good start on us, on that train,” said Earless.

Stiefelbreich shook his head. “I’ll let you have one of the consulate cars—a Mercedes. The train will go slowly—everything’s disrupted; we’ve seen to that, and it stops altogether in Switzerland. But he mustn’t get away. If he reaches the Channel and gets over to England, we’ve lost him. The Führer doesn’t want any trouble with the British government—or the Americans.”

“And if we find him—” began Theophilus.

“Not if,” snapped the colonel. “When.”

“When we find him,” said Theophilus, “do you want him brought back here?”

Stiefelbreich shook his head. “You’ll be in radio contact with the SS patrols; they’ll take him straight to Colditz. As soon as you have the prince, arrange with them to hand him over. You’ll get your bonuses just the same.”

But Theophilus had one more question: “If there’s any difficulty . . . there might be a struggle perhaps . . . I take it you want the boy alive?”

“Certainly we want him alive,” snapped Stiefelbreich. “Unless . . .” He walked over to the window and stood looking out. “He mustn’t get across the Channel,” he said. “But yes, if possible, we want him alive.”

Left alone again, Stiefelbreich sent a message to the commandant at Colditz.

“Expect prisoner hourly. Inform time of arrival,” it said, and it was signed with his code name, which was Iron Fist. It was a good name, thought Stiefelbreich; he had chosen it himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Berganian Mountain Cat

The train was traveling more slowly now. The stops grew more frequent; convoys of army trucks passed on the road. The time for Bergania to be “protected” by the brave soldiers of the German Reich was coming very close.

In their compartment the children waited anxiously. The ordeal that faced them was not far away now. At the border with Switzerland there was a checkpoint where passports and permits were examined. The Deldertonians were traveling on a group passport. It contained photographs of Matteo and Magda; the rest were mentioned only by name: four girls, four boys . . .

Only now there were four girls and five boys. Somehow they would have to lose a boy or confuse the customs officials and persuade them that the numbers were right.

As the train reached the beginning of the Altheimer Pass, which crossed the last mountain range into Switzerland, it stopped in a final sort of way and the guard came down the corridor and said everyone was to get out. The rest of the journey was to be completed by bus.

Everyone grabbed their belongings and piled out of the train. At the other end of the platform, keeping her back to them, they saw the Countess Frederica standing with the other first-class passengers.

They waited for nearly an hour and then three buses appeared labeled ZURICH. The first-class passengers were led to one of them, the children scrambled into the others and they set off.

The pass was dramatically beautiful; the bus climbed and snaked and climbed again. The land below them was neutral and safe as it had been for centuries. Switzerland had kept out of the last war; it had given sanctuary to thousands of refugees in the centuries that had gone by. It wasn’t just chocolate and cuckoo clocks and cheese that the Swiss were famous for, but safety and peace.

Then as they approached the top of the pass the buses drew into a lay-by and stopped. The drivers got out and stretched and lit cigarettes. They seemed to be waiting for orders.

Inside the bus, Matteo suddenly spoke. “Out,” he said. “All the Deldertonians out. Quick.”

The children stood up. This was how their biology lessons began—with Matteo ordering them out. Matteo strung his binoculars around his neck and said a few words to the driver, who shrugged and turned back to his colleagues. Then he turned to the children.

“We’re going up the path to that rocky ledge. No one must make a sound.”

“What is it?” whispered Barney.

“Probably nothing,” said Matteo below his breath, “but possibly—just possibly—one of the rarest mammals in Europe: the Berganian mountain cat.”

The wind at this height was piercing; the quartz in the rock sparkled; the sun beat down. Tally was completely bewildered. Was this part of the prince’s escape or was it a biology lesson?

It was a biology lesson. Nobody was allowed to talk, anyone not picking up their feet was glared at, and strangely, all of them, in spite of what they had gone through, were focused on one thing and one thing only: the snow leopard of the Alps, the Berganian mountain cat. Matteo had described it. Fur pale as honey, black tufted ears like a lynx . . . a predator that could leap a hundred meters down on to its prey . . .