In forty years Spielfeld-Strass has not changed. It is the same today as it was in 1943 – when Paco and her companions arrived in a six-coach train drawn by an ancient steam engine. It is more like a wayside halt than a frontier station.
As Lindsay alighted, following Paco, he saw another train waiting in a siding. The destination plates hanging from the coaches carried the legend WIEN SUDBHF. They crossed the tracks coated with early morning frost and went inside the small station building through the door marked Ausgang. No one was about to collect the tickets they had purchased at Graz.
Paco walked without appearing to hurry, descended some concrete steps and they were out in the open. The station stood perched on the side of a small hill. Down a short slope they walked into Spielfeld, a handful of houses and a police station, a two-storeyed building with a tiled gable and a tiny dormer window like a dovecote. Over the entrance were the words Gendarmerie and Postenkommando.
It was all so entirely unexpected. Lindsay transferred his suitcase to his left hand and caught up with Paco.
'There's no sign of troops or defences.'
'Wait till we get to the border crossing. It's not far.'
'What's happened to Bora and Milic?'
'Questions, questions, questions! You're at it again. They've gone a different way to create the diversion if we run into trouble at the crossing point…'
Lindsay said nothing. He was recalling how he had wandered into the kitchen of the house at Graz. Milic had been packing equipment inside a bag – the 'equipment' had included stick grenades and what looked like smoke bombs. Presumably he had collected his travelling gear from some secret weapons store inside the house. He had not enquired.
'Don't stop!' Paco warned. 'Keep walking – ignore the police van.'
The police station stood at the edge of a deserted square. On the far side reared a huge chestnut tree, gaunt with naked branches along which were perched rows of sparrows. Behind the tree huddled an ancient inn with faded, colour-washed walls. Gasthof Schenk.
It was so incredibly peaceful. The other passengers seemed to have made off in the opposite direction – which made Lindsay feel conspicuous and nervous of the police station. Coffee-coloured hens trod the paving stones, jerking their red wattles. The birds chattered testily. The only other sound was the click of billiard balls from an open window in the Gasthof.
It was 11 am, the sky was a sea of surging grey clouds and there was the smell of rain to come.
Two uniformed policemen sat in the cab of the police van parked under the chestnut. As they walked past the vehicle which bore the word Polizei in white across the front, Lindsay was aware of two pairs of eyes studying him. The two men remained motionless but he knew they were watching. He waited for the metallic grind of the handle being turned as the door opened.
Paco waited until they were descending a country lane before she spoke. Behind there was a faint flapping and Lindsay almost jumped. It was the birds taking off.
'They wouldn't stoop to speak to the likes of us,' she remarked in a perfect cockney accent. 'The way we're dressed!'
They had changed into different clothes at the house in Graz. Now Paco wore a peasant jacket and skirt of Serbian style with a brightly-coloured handkerchief wrapped tightly round her head – again concealing her blonde hair.
Lindsay was similarly attired in the male equivalent and, at Paco's suggestion, had again not shaved so he was well-whiskered. They passed a high green knoll as they proceeded down the empty country lane and now the only sound was the distant whistle of an engine followed by the clang of shunted coaches.
`Milic and Bora may have to wipe out the frontier post if we are stopped,' she remarked casually. 'In case of trouble, put as much distance as possible between yourself and the guards. We have arrived
…'
Acts of violence are shocking not so much by the casualties they create as in the suddenness with which they occur. Rounding a corner in the country lane they were confronted with the frontier post, with war.
German troops mounted guard over the crossing point, men clad in field-grey uniform who moved restlessly about to combat the morning chill. They paused to stamp their booted feet on the iron-hard ground crusted heavily with frost in a hollow. They slapped their gloved hands round their shoulders to get the circulation going. In the descent from the station the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
The rail track had reappeared, the line leading south into the Balkans, into the battlefield. A goods wagon stood in a siding and men loaded it with wooden boxes from an Army truck. Lindsay stiffened and Paco's arm linked inside his kept him moving.
The boxes were rectangular in shape, made of wood and stencilled with broken lettering. Ammunition boxes. The rail wagon was almost fully-laden. Sentries with machine-pistols at the ready patrolled on both sides of the track.
'A bad moment to arrive,' Lindsay murmured.
'A good moment,' Paco murmured back. 'Their attention is taken up with that wagon.'
Lindsay glanced up at the grassy knolls topped with copses of trees surrounding the hollow. He was trying to imagine where he would position himself if he were Milic and Bora. There was no sign of the two men. Paco produced some grubby papers and they joined a queue of no more than half-a-dozen peasants waiting to cross into Yugoslavia.
The two old women immediately in front of them chattered in a strange language, a sing-song, zizzing sound. Lindsay had never heard people speaking in that way before. Paco, who was watching him, whispered.
'That's Serbo-Croat. You'd better get used to it, you're going to hear a lot of that..
Strange, Lindsay reflected, her calm confidence that they would reach the Promised Land, Yugoslavia. The border post was a small wooden but very much like those he remembered night watchmen had sheltered inside in England before the war. All papers were being examined minutely by a young Army captain.
'Be careful,' he warned Paco, 'the young ones are the worst.'
'Not for me!'
She really was quite incredible. Lindsay's nerves were twanging. Then he noticed why such a youngster occupied this passive occupation. His left sleeve hung loose like a draped curtain: he had only one arm. He observed the tight mouth, the bitter expression. Paco could have misjudged this man.
The queue shuffled forward. Beyond the hut, maybe a hundred metres beyond, stood a huge tidy log pile stacked in a cube. Some of the logs from this pile' formed a fire which crackled dose to the hut. The captain waved a man across the border. Safety was simply permission to continue walking down a country road – on to Yugoslav soil.
Now only the two old women in front of them had to be checked before it was their turn. Lindsay had never felt so helpless in his life – no experience at the Wolf's Lair, at the Berghof, while they were spending the night at the tumbledown Gasthof near the Sudbahnhof, had been as bad as this. He felt so horribly exposed…
'I thought my aunt looked surprisingly well – considering how ill she has been. Don't you agree?' asked Paco, speaking German in a calm voice.
She caught Lindsay off guard. He had been studying the topography close to the border point. He realized she was making conversation for the benefit of the officer checking papers.
'It was a waste of time our coming in my opinion,' Lindsay responded.
The two old women ahead were handed their documents and the German studied Paco before taking her papers. She smiled at him but he showed no interest, which was exactly what Lindsay had expected. 'These papers are not in order, he said after only a glance.
The top of the green knoll closest to the frontier post below was occupied by three men. Two were alive. One was dead. The German machine-gunner who had guarded this key position sprawled behind his weapon had never heard Milic creeping through the trees. His first inkling that he was not alone was when Milic rammed home the knife.
British field craft, as taught in the training camps in England was an amateurish affair compared with the Serb's expertise. Now it was Bora who lay sprawled behind the gun mounted on a tripod.
Next to him Milic lay on the cold grass with a pair of field glasses focused on Lindsay and Paco as they waited for their papers to be examined. Alongside Milic in neat, rows lay the stick grenades he had extracted from the canvas satchel he had carried on his back. A parallel row of smoke bombs lay behind the grenades.
'I think there is trouble down there,' Milic observed.
'What is wrong?' snapped Bora. 'They may get through without trouble. Trust Paco…'
'She has just given the signal,' Milic replied equably.
Through the lenses of the glasses he clearly saw Paco raise a hand to the handkerchief covering her head. It was the agreed warning. We are in danger…'
'The special stamp recently introduced is absent from both of these documents,' the captain at the frontier post informed Paco.
'But, Captain, these papers were stamped in Graz yesterday…'
'You mean they were forged in Graz yesterday!'
Paco raised her hand to her head as though straightening her handkerchief. She went on talking, holding the captain's attention as she produced another set of papers. Her manner became even more self-assured and with a hint of arrogance.
'We are on a mission. Have you not been informed? We should have been passed through without question. These papers, as you will see, are signed by SS Colonel Jaeger of the Berghof…'
Lindsay glanced round the hollow again, surveying the enclosing knolls as the captain, his eye caught by the embossed eagle holding the swastika in its claws at the head of the documents, began to study the transit orders.
A short, wide-shouldered figure appeared at the crest of the knoll closest to the frontier post. His right hand held something which he hurled in an arc. The object landed close to a group of soldiers and detonated.
The dull thump of the explosion knocked down the soldiers like a row of skittles. A second grenade landed. Lindsay made a fist and hit the captain in the centre of his chest. He toppled back inside the hut.
Grabbing Paco by the arm he hustled her forward until they were running.
'That log pile!' he shouted. The peaceful frontier post had erupted into activity and soldiers milled around like confused ants. 'We must get down behind it – the ammunition wagon…'
He threw her down bodily as bullets from a machine-pistol streamed at them, spinning chips of wood off the top of the pile. Peering round a corner he saw the next grenade describing an arc and dropping inside its objective – the ammunition wagon…
The world came apart in a shattering roar. The ground under their feet – the frost-coated, iron hard ground – trembled as though shaken by an earthquake. Lindsay lay on top of Paco, shielding her as debris rained down. The log-pile remained firm.
He risked another glance round the corner. The wagon had disappeared. A section of the track had disappeared. The Germans who had patrolled alongside the wagon had disappeared. Men with rifles – well spaced out – began advancing up towards the crest of the knoll from which Milic had hurled his grenades. Now, crouched out of sight, he tossed smoke bombs down the slope.
They burst just in front of the advancing file of troops and a wall of fog billowed between them and the top of the knoll. Sprawled full-length behind the German machine-gun, Bora stared, along the gun sight. The first German broke through the smoke. He waited. More troops appeared.
Lindsay checked carefully the position inside the hollow. Confusion still. Distant shouted orders. The frontier post but had also vanished when the ammunition wagon exploded.
'We go now,' he told Paco. 'No one is watching the road to Yugoslavia. What about Milic and Bora…'
'They look after themselves. That was the arrangement. They join us later…'
'Follow me. I'm going to run. Zigzag – it makes a hard target to hit. Keep well away from me…'
He took one final look and started running. Paco followed and kept to the side of the road. Lindsay was running down the centre, dodging from side to side. At the extreme right flank of the file of troops moving up the knoll a soldier saw them.
He stopped, turning as he lifted his rifle to shoulder level. He took careful aim at the Englishman, trying to anticipate, his next position. He was aiming slightly ahead of Lindsay. He took the first pressure. He was a marksman – which was why he was a flanker.
Bora swivelled the barrel of his gun. He sighted it on the man aiming at Lindsay and pressed the trigger. He kept his finger on the trigger, sweeping the weapon's stream of bullets along the line of climbing Germans. The flanker was dead. The steady rattle of the machine-gun continued, then ceased.
They were spread along the lower slope – every man who a moment earlier had been advancing towards the crest. In the hollow there was carnage but no sign of life. Black smoke drifted slowly from a large crater where the ammunition wagon had stood. The truck which had brought the ammunition boxes had vanished. Peace – a peace of horror – settled over Spielfeld-Strass.
'The incident bears the clear signature of the group we are pursuing,' Hartmann remarked as he extinguished his pipe.
The Junkers 52 which had flown the two men from Vienna to Graz was beginning its descent. Beside the Abwehr officer sat Willy Maisel. For weeks Hartmann had combed the Graz district for the fugitives without success, eventually returning to the Austrian capital. Now events had confirmed his judgement. Before boarding the Junkers he had phoned Bormann. He had heard Bormann repeating what he said and in the background the voices of Jodl and Keitel. The Reichsleiter's security was a farce.
'Signature?' queried the mystified Maisel.
'Their modus operandi – a repeat performance of the affair in front of the Frauenkirche in Munich. The report from Graz about the attack at Spielfeld-Strass spoke of grenades and smoke bombs. The same technique as in Munich.
'I see,' Maisel replied. 'You think then…'
'I don't think, my dear Maisel, I know! ' Lindsay and his escort crossed into Yugoslavia at Spielfeld-Strass this morning. I tried to warn Bormann – Switzerland might not be the answer…'
'So now we enter Yugoslavia ourselves – into the cauldron as the Wehrmacht calls it,' Maisel commented without enthusiasm.
'An excellent description.- you can get scalded before you know what has happened,' Hartmann replied cheerfully. 'And I have to go into Yugoslavia. You are a free agent, Maisel…'
'I have my duty to do,' the Gestapo officer said stolidly.
The wheels of the plane bumped as they touched down and taxied along the runway. A building carried the legend Graz Flughafen. Hartmann was secretly amused at Maisel's trepidation. At – Vienna the Gestapo man had joined the plane at the last moment – sent, as Hartmann was perfectly aware, by Gruber to keep an eye on his investigation.
Hartmann had always preferred to operate on his own. Already he had laid plans to lose Maisel at the first opportunity. When they disembarked from the machine and Maisel began walking in the direction of the airfield building Hartmann dropped his case and stretched his arms.
'I'm going to exercise my legs…'
'I need coffee – I'm parched,' Maisel replied and walked on.
Hartmann waited until he had disappeared, then picked up his bag and walked rapidly across to the small Fiesler-Storch parked near the runway where a pilot stood smoking. He stubbed his cigarette quickly as Hartmann approached.
'Gustav Hartmann,' the German introduced himself breezily. 'I phoned from Vienna for a feeder aircraft to take me on to Spielfeld-Strass.'
'At your service, Major. Erhard Noske. May I take your case?'
'Fuelled? Ready for immediate take-off?'
'Of course, sir! Your orders were explicit…'
Five minutes later Willy Maisel, a cup of coffee in his hand, stared out of a window as the tiny plane took off, gained height and turned on a south-easterly course. Swallowing the rest of the coffee, which tasted like real coffee – these rustics out in the wilds knew how to take care of themselves – he ran to the control tower.
The plane which just took off. Who was aboard? What is its destination?'
'All flights are subject to the most stringent security. Who might you be?' enquired the late-middle aged Austrian.
'I might be Gestapo…' Maisel produced his identity folder. 'I am Gestapo. You want me to ask you again in words of one syllable?'
'Major Gustav Hartmann of the Abwehr is the passenger. He is flying to the airstrip nearest Spielfeld-Strass…'
'Bastard!'
'I beg your pardon – I have answered your questions.'
'Not you. At least I don't think so,' Maisel replied drily.
The airstrip materialized like a conjuring trick. They had flown the whole way from Graz in a heavy overcast, grey damp clouds like the thickest of ground fogs. Hartmann – who disliked flying – had spent most of the time trying to recall that there were no mountains in the way between Graz and the border. They dropped like a stone.
The airstrip – no more than a preserved grass runway – lay beneath their landing wheels. They were down before Hartmann had time to adjust to the fact that they were landing. A Mercedes stood waiting, two men in the front seat.
'Very efficient of you, Noske,' Hartmann commented as he shoe-horned himself out of the plane and accepted his bag from the pilot. 'To have the car I ordered waiting. And a chauffeur as well, I see. The other man is a guard?'
'I have no idea who those people are,' Noske replied.
'You haven't? I see,' Hartmann responded grimly and took his time lighting his pipe.
He walked slowly to the open Mercedes, pausing to get the pipe going properly. There was an icy breeze blowing across the hard, rutted field. Let them ruddy well wait his convenience. It was Colonel Jaeger – with Schmidt beside him – who greeted Hartmann affably.
'Jump in the back seat! I'll drive you to Spielfeld-Strass. That is your destination, of course?'
'Of course.. Hartmann settled himself comfortably as though he had expected the two SS men to be waiting. He continued the conversation while Jaeger steered the car across the bumpy ground on to a nearby highway.
'Since when has the SS taken to tapping my phone calls? I used a phone at your headquarters. to avoid Gruber..
'It's by way of a compliment,' Jaeger replied. 'Your reputation for solving the insoluble is nation-wide.'
`You know something?' the Abwehr man commented. 'If we spend so much energy spying on each other, the Allies and Russia will have won this war before we realize what has happened.'
'You suspect Lindsay went over at Spielfeld-Strass?'
'Someone did,' Hartmann replied non-committally.
'We've just come from there…' Jaeger's tone changed, a bleak note entered his voice. 'It's a bloody terrible business that took place down there…'
'What do you expect? Someone tosses a match into an ammunition wagon.'
'It wasn't a match – it was a grenade,' Jaeger growled and his eyes met Hartmann's in the rear-view mirror. 'Waffen SS troops died in that holocaust…'
'A lot of people died when Goering carpet-bombed Belgrade…'
Jaeger was so furious he jammed on the brake and swivelled in his seat. 'Whose side are you on, anyway? Tito's?'
'I was a lawyer before this bloodbath we call a war started,' Hartmann said mildly. 'My job was sometimes for the prosecution, sometimes for the defence. That way you get to look at other people's point of view. Are we going to get to Spielfeld-Strass today?'
Jaeger released the brake and resumed driving at speed along the winding country road. His expression was grim. He was blazing with rage. He carefully avoided meeting Hartmann's eyes in the rear-view mirror a second time. The Abwehr officer placidly smoked his pipe.
Once Schmidt turned round and stared at their passenger briefly, the ghost of a smile on his face. Hartmann knew what he was thinking. You devious bastard…'
It was Schmidt he would have to watch, Hartmann reflected. A police chief before the war, his mind was attuned to analysing motives. Hartmann had deliberately provoked the bluff Jaeger to distance himself from the SS colonel – and Schmidt had understood his tactic.
Jaeger remained silent until he drove the car down the country lane past the railway station and pulled up in the hollow where the Spielfeld-Strass frontier post had stood.
The scene was dramatic. The catastrophe had occurred at eleven-thirty in the morning. It was now three in the afternoon. A gigantic crane mounted on a flat-car was slowly backing away towards Graz, drawn by a steam-engine. Army engineers, their work completed, stood drinking beer.
Fresh track had been laid, renewing the link between Austria and the line continuing south to Zagreb in Yugoslavia. Hartmann stepped out of the car and again threw Jaeger off balance with his opening remark.
'With organization like this we should still win this war.'
'It is essential communications be maintained,' Jaeger responded gruffly. 'Along this route travel all the supplies for twenty divisions engaging the guerrilla forces. Twenty divisions! Can you imagine what we could do with those transferred to the Russian front?'
'Perhaps the Fuhrer should have gone round Yugoslavia rather than through it,' Hartmann suggested.
'And let the Allies launch an attack on our flank?'
'They have yet to do that in Spain. Neutrals – they're worth their weight in gold. They don't tie up priceless troops. Tell me, did anyone survive?'
A large canvas structure had been erected on the edge of the hollow and Hartmann had observed a medical orderly entering the marquee. Jaeger gestured towards it.
'A Captain Brunner was the only survivor. The extraordinary thing is he was apparently inside a flimsy wooden but when hell broke loose. The but just vanished but he escaped with little more than shock. So they told me over the phone.'
'I think I'll have a word with him…'
Hartmann started to walk towards the marquee. Jaeger fell in beside him, followed by Schmidt. The Abwehr man stopped and removed his pipe. His manner was quite sharp.
'Alone, I meant. Now would it be sensible to confront a shock case with an SS colonel, an SS captain and myself? He will feel overwhelmed – may even suspect we're interrogating him prior to arrest. Bormann will certainly try and make someone responsible for this debacle. Who is made to order for the role? The sole survivor.'
'All right.' Jaeger's agreement was grudging. 'We'll see him later.' His sense of humour asserted itself. 'Unless, of course, you bring us a detailed report of every word Brunner says. Every word!'
'Of course!'
Hartmann's tone expressed amazement that Jaeger should imagine any other outcome was possible. On his way to the makeshift field hospital he checked to make sure he was carrying a pack of cigarettes. In the past they had worked wonders in interrogations. The medical orderly came out of the entrance.
'Can your patient smoke if he wants to? Can I ask him just a few questions?'
The orderly, a stoop-shouldered man in his fifties, stared. He looked as though he was adjusting to a unique experience.
'They don't usually ask, they just barge in regardless. Yes, he can smoke, in fact, he's panting for a cigarette. The shock is wearing off rapidly. I'd say you'll be good for him…'
Brunner was lying on a stretcher perched between two crates with a pile of stacked pillows to keep him upright. He watched the new arrival warily as Hartmann manhandled a spare crate to provide himself With a seat. The act of adopting a sitting position reassures the subject you are interrogating.
The injured captain's hand was bandaged, so Hartmann lit a cigarette and placed it between Brunner's lips. The eyes still had a wary look. He nodded his thanks for the cigarette.
'I'm Abwehr…'
The transformation in the atmosphere was almost ludicrous. The man on the stretcher physically sagged back on the pillows with relief.
'I was expecting the Gestapo.'
'Well, this is your lucky day – if you ignore this…' Hartmann gestured towards the bandaged hand. 'You survived.' He glanced at the loose left sleeve which contained no arm. 'The Eastern front? I thought so. And here you must have felt confident you had rendered your service to the Reich – that you could enjoy the quiet life until this accursed war ended.'
Perhaps it was his lawyer's training – more likely it was simply his natural flair for psychology – but Hartmann had a gift for saying the right thing. He saw Brunner's eyes light up, the reserves come down.
'You're so right,' Brunner agreed passionately. 'Then out of the blue this morning the world blows up. You know I'm the only survivor? I had friends in this unit. If it had been Russia… But at this dot on the map no one's ever heard of – and it was all the work of that bitch, I'm certain.'
'Tell me about… the bitch,' Hartmann coaxed.
It came flooding out, the events prior to the moment when the world had blown up. Hartmann listened without interruption and offered a fresh cigarette which Brunner lit himself. The descriptions of the couple whose papers Brunner had questioned seconds before the disaster made Hartmann uncertain.
'What colour was the girl's hair?' he asked eventually.
'No idea. She had it covered in one of those handkerchiefs these peasant women wear.'
'And she spoke German – fluently?'
'As well as you and I are talking…'
His description of the man who had accompanied her was vaguer. Hartmann felt fairly sure this could have been Lindsay – but again there was no certainty.
And no, Brunner had not seen any sign of the guerrillas who had attacked the post.
'First time they've ever come this far north,' he went on, thinking aloud. 'Can't understand the reason – probably the ammunition wagon was their objective.'
'It was common knowledge the wagon was to be loaded today?'
'God no! You wouldn't believe the security on things like that. First indication we get is when the wagon appears and the feeder truck rolls up…'
'So there would be no way the guerrillas could have known in advance the wagon would be here today?'
'Come to think of it, no.'
'Where are they sending you?' Hartmann asked as he stood up and prepared to leave.
'I've got compassionate leave. I'm months overdue. The Colonel in Graz is a decent type. It's a long way. Flensburg. Know it?'
'On the Danish border.. Hartmann smiled wryly. 'What used to be the Danish border before 1940. When you get home apply to the local military commander for a permanent discharge. You have done your bit for the Fatherland. Good luck, Brunner.'
It was pure chance that Hartmann met the medical orderly outside the field dressing station. The orderly was hurrying and his brow wad furrowed. In his hand he held a piece of paper.
'Something troubling you?' Hartmann enquired. 'The patient, Captain Brunner, has to be kept here.
I was just arranging for him to be moved to Graz…'
'Why the delay?'
'A Gestapo officer, Gruber, is on his way from Vienna to question Brunner. He is expected in three hours' time…'
Hartmann reacted instantly. 'You will move Brunner by plane to Graz immediately! Have another machine standing by to fly him on direct to Flensburg in Schleswig-Holstein via Frankfurt..
'But what about Gruber?'
'What I have instructed you to do is by order of the Fuhrer.' Hartmann produced the authority signed by Martin Bormann giving him full powers. 'Read that. Does anyone know your name?'
'No. It was all such a rush. I came straight down from Graz.'
'Travel back there with Brunner and see him safely aboard the transport to Flensburg. He is your patient. This, you never received.. Hartmann took from the orderly's hands the signal sent by Gruber, screwed it up into a ball and pocketed it. 'I cannot tell you the reason why the swift evacuation of Brunner is imperative. It goes right up to the Fuhrer himself. Understood?'
'Yes, I will do as you say at once.'
The orderly carefully handed back the Bormann document he had read, Hartmann replaced it inside his wallet and walked back to the station to enquire when the next train left for Zagreb. He had left the frontier post unnoticed by Jaeger and Schmidt who sat on the ground leaning their backs against the Mercedes while they ate army rations obtained from the engineers.
'That train departs for Zagreb in five minutes,' the station master at Spielfeld-Strass told Hartmann. 'Normal service will be resumed now the track is repaired.'
There was an atmosphere of the front line now about the sleepy little halt. Waffen SS troops armed with machine-pistols stood inside the cab with the engine-driver and fireman. One man with a heavy machine-gun was perched on top of the coal-tender. In the rear coach, a mail-van, a platoon of troops was hidden – a helmeted figure peered out briefly before slamming the door shut.
Hartmann chose an empty third-class compartment with uncomfortable wooden seats to make his presence less noticeable. Within five minutes the train started moving south. He kept his head out of sight as they chugged slowly through the hollow across freshly-laid track.
The Mercedes had gone. Presumably Jaeger, beside himself with fury at the trick played on him, was searching for Hartmann. The temporarily-erected field hospital was also gone. The orderly had spirited Brunner out of Spielfeld-Strass.
Alone at last! He lit his pipe and eased his back against the hard seat. He must get something to eat later – but Hartmann could go long periods without food. At the station he had drunk two bottles of mineral water from the tiny army canteen. He said the words out aloud.
'Well, I've done the best I can.'
'And that, I am sure, is a very good best, Major…'
Hartmann turned his head very slowly and looked up at the man staring down at him with a satisfied smile. Willy Maisel, the Gestapo official he had left behind at Graz Flughafen, looked as contented as Hartman had felt a minute earlier.