Where Eagles Dare

“Ah, and the fountain in the courtyard of the dear old Friedrichsbau,” Smith said nostalgically. He glanced at Kramer, and the nostalgia gave way to a pseudo-mournful reproof. “How could you, my dear Colonel? To proceed. Why—third point, I think—why did I stage this elaborate car accident—because I knew those three impostors wouldn't dare come into the open until they thought I was dead. Anyway, if I were the impostor, would I have come back when I knew the game was up? Anyway, to come back for what?” He smiled wearily and nodded at Jones. “To rescue another impostor?”

Kramer said thoughtfully: “I must say I'm rather beginning to look forward to hearing what our three friends here have to say.”

“I'll tell you now what I've bloody well got to say.” Christiansen was on his feet, ignoring the guard's gun, his voice shaking with fury. “He's fooling you, he's fooling all of us. He's a damned liar and you're too damned stupid to see the wool over your eyes. A tissue of ——— lies, from beginning to end—”

“That will do!” Kramer's hand was up, his eyes bleak, his tone icy. “You condemn yourselves from your own mouths. Every statement made so far by this officer is demonstrably true. Sergeant Hartmann”—this to the guard with the carbine—“if any of those men speak again, do you think you could silence him without silencing him permanently?”

Hartmann produced a small woven-leather truncheon from his tunic and slipped the looped thong over his wrist.

“You know I can, Herr Colonel.”

“Good. Pray continue, Captain Schmidt.”

“Thank you. I hadn't finished.” Smith felt like pouring himself another brandy, a celebration brandy or, alternatively, pinning a medal on Christiansen for having so unerringly if unwittingly exposed the chink in Kramer's armour, a wounded intellectual vanity, the lacerated professional pride of a brilliant man being reminded of his capacity for being duped by one of those who had already duped him. “For the same excellent reason I came here by the roof of the cable-car—they'd never have come into the open if they'd known I was here—and alive. Incidentally, Kramer, hasn't it occurred to you that it's impossible to enter the Schloss Adler from the roof of the header station without the assistance of a rope and someone inside?”

“Damnation!” Coming so soon after Christiansen's reminder of his fallibility, Smith's question left Kramer's self-confidence badly shaken. “I never thought—”

“Von Brauchitsch,” Smith said carelessly. “He had his orders direct from Berlin.” He placed his glass on the mantelpiece, walked across and stood before the three spies. “Tell me, how did / know Jones was an impostor? Why did you not know he was one? And if I'm not what I claim to be then what in God's name am I doing here at all? Perhaps you would like to explain that?”

The three men glared up at him in baleful silence.

“Perhaps they would indeed,” Kramer said heavily. He came and stood by Smith, staring down at the three men with an oddly expressionless gaze that was more disturbing than any show of anger could ever have been. After another and longer silence he said: “Captain Schmidt, this has gone far enough.”

“Not yet.”

“I require no more,” Kramer persisted.

“I promised you proof—those were but the pointers. A proof to satisfy the Deputy Chief of the German Secret Service—and that proof is in three parts. A yes or no, Colonel Kramer, if you please. Do you or do you not know the name of our top man in Britain?” Kramer nodded. “Then suppose we ask them?”

The three men on the couch looked at each other, then at Smith. They looked in silence. Thomas licked dry lips, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Kramer. Smith produced a small red note-book from his tunic pocket, removed a rubber band, tore out the central page, then carefully replaced the band on the book and the book in his pocket. He wrote something on the page and handed it to Kramer, who glanced at it and nodded. Smith took the paper from him, walked across to the fire and burned it.

“Now then,” Smith said. “You have here, in the Schloss Adler, the most powerful radio transmitter in Central Europe—”

“You are singularly well-informed, Captain Schmidt,” Kramer said wryly.

“Smith. I live Smith. I breathe Smith. I am Smith. Put a radio-telephone call through to Field-Marshal Kesselring's H.Q. in Northern Italy. Ask for his Chief of Military Intelligence.”

Kramer said softly: “The mutual friend you mentioned?”

“An old alumnus of Heidelberg University,” Smith nodded. “Colonel Wilhelm Wilner.” He smiled. “Willi-Willi.”

“You know that? Then it will not be necessary to call him.”

“Admiral Canaris would like you to.”

“And you know my chief, too?” Kramer's voice was even softer.

“My self-esteem urges me to say that I do—but modesty and the truth compels me to admit I don't,” Smith said disarmingly. “I just work for him.”

“I'm convinced already, convinced beyond all doubt,” Rosemeyer said. “But do as he says, Colonel.”