Where Eagles Dare

“In there, as a matter of fact.” Von Brauchitsch nodded as they passed by an ornate door. “The gold drawing-room.” He glanced at his watch. “In twenty minutes! So soon! Your charming company, Fraulein.”

“Thank you, kind sir. You—you have an appointment?” Her heart was back at its old tricks again.

“An evening of musical appreciation. Even the Gestapo has its finer side. We are going to listen to a nightingale sing.” He quickened his pace. “Sorry, Fraulein, but I've just remembered I've one or two reports to prepare.”

“I'm sorry if I've kept you from your work, Captain,” she said demurely. How much does he know, she thought wildly, how much does he suspect, what action has he suddenly decided to take? The von Brauchitschs of this world didn't just suddenly remember anything for the excellent reason that they never forgot it in the first place. “It's been most kind of you.”

“The pleasure was one-sided,” von Brauchitsch protested gallantly. “Mine and mine alone.” He stopped outside her bedroom door, took her hand in his and smiled. “Goodnight, my dear Maria. You really are the most charming girl.”

“Goodnight.” She returned smile for smile. “And thank you.”

“We really must get to know each other better,” von Brauchitsch said in farewell. He opened her door, bowed, kissed her hand, gently closed the door behind her and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Very much better, my dear Maria,” he said softly to himself. “Very much better indeed.”

Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen bent over their notebooks and scribbled furiously. At least the first two did: Christiansen had not yet recovered from the blow on the head and was making heavy weather of his writing. Kramer, who was standing apart with Smith and talking to him in low tones, looked at them in curiosity and with just a trace of uneasiness.

“They seem to be finding plenty of inspiration from somewhere,” he said carefully.

“The spectacle of an open grave is often thought-provoking,” Smith said cynically.

“I am afraid I don't quite follow.”

“Do you know what those men will be fifteen minutes from now?”

“I'm tired,” Kramer said. He sounded it. “Please don't play with words, Captain Schmidt.”

“Smith. In fifteen minutes they'll be dead. And they know it. They're fighting desperately for extra minutes to live: when you have as little time left as they have, even a minute is a prize snatched from eternity. Or the last despairing fling of the ruined gambler. Call it what you like.”

“You wax lyrical, Captain,” Kramer grumbled. He paced up and down for almost a minute, no longer troubling to watch the men at the table, then stopped and planted himself squarely in front of Smith. “All right,” he said wearily. “I've been on the spit long enough. I confess I'm baffled. Out with it. What in God's name is behind all this?”

“The simplicity of true genius, my dear Kramer. Admiral Rolland, the head of M.I.6. And he is a genius, make no mistake.”

“So he's a genius,” Kramer said impatiently. “Well?”

“Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen were caught three weeks ago. Now, as you are aware, they were concerned only with north-west Europe and were not known here.”

“By reputation, they were.”

“Yes, yes. But only that. Admiral Rolland reckoned that if three fully-briefed men impersonated our three captured men and were despatched here for a perfectly plausible reason, they would be persona grata of some note, honoured guests and completely accepted by you. And, of course, once they were accepted by you, they could operate inside the Schloss Adler with complete security and safety.”

“And?”

“Well, don't you see?” It was Smith's turn to be impatient. “Rolland knew that if General Carnaby—” he broke off and scowled across the room at Carnaby-Jones—“or that impostor masquerading as General Carnaby were taken here, his opposite number in the German Army would be sent to interrogate him.” Smith smiled. “Even in Britain they are aware that the prophet must go to the mountain, not the mountain to the prophet: the Army calls upon the Gestapo, not vice versa.”

“Go on, go on!”

“The Wehrmacht Chief of Staff, Reichsmarschall Julius Rosemeyer, would have been just as priceless to the Allies as General Carnaby to us.”

“The Reichsmarschall!” Kramer spoke in a shocked whisper, his eyes straying across the room to Rosemeyer. “Kidnap!”

“Your precious trusted agents there,” Smith said savagely. “And they would have got away with it.”

“My God! God in heaven! It's—it's diabolical!”

“Isn't it?” Smith said. “Isn't it just?”