The next thing was to ensure that he continued to have the place to himself. At the lower end of the sloping archway leading up to the castle courtyard, the heavy iron door stood wide. He passed through this doorway and padded softly up the cobbled pathway until he came to the courtyard exit. Here, too, was another iron gate, as wide open as the other. Schaffer moved as far forward as the shadowing safety of the tunnel’s overhang permitted and looked cautiously around the scene before him.
There was certainly, he had to admit, plenty to be seen and under more auspicious circumstances it would have done his heart good. The courtyard scene was as frenzied as the earlier glimpse they had had from the passage, but this time the action was much more purposive and controlled. Shouting, gesticulating figures were supervising the unrolling of hoses, the coupling-up of hydrants, the relays of men carrying extinguishers and buckets of sand. The main gates stood open and unguarded, even the sentries must have been pressed into action: not that the unguarded doors offered any warmly beckoning escape route. Only a suicide would have tried making his escape through a courtyard crowded with sixty or seventy scurrying Alpenkorps troops.
Over to his left the helicopter still stood forlorn and useless. There was no sign of the pilot. Suddenly a loud flat explosion echoed inside the confining walls of the square.
Schaffer lifted his head to locate its source, saw fresh clouds of smoke billowing from an upper window in the east wing and briefly wondered which of his diversionary explosives that might be. But only for a brief moment. Some instinct made him glance to his right and his face went very still. The men he’d seen floundering up the slope outside, guards with the Dobermann pinchers, were coming through the main gate, the clouds of frozen breath trailing in the air behind them evidence enough of their exhausting run uphill through that knee-high snow. Schaffer backed away slowly and silently: German soldiers he could cope with or avoid but Doberman’s were out of his class. He swung the heavy iron door to, careful not to make the least whisper of sound, slid home two heavy bolts, ran quickly down the arched passage-way, closed and padlocked the lower door and put the key in his pocket.
He looked up, startled, at a loud crashing of glass and the subsequent tinkle as the shattered fragments tinkled to the floor. Automatically, the barrel of his Luger followed his glance.-
‘Put that cannon away,’ Smith said irritably. Schaffer could clearly see his face now, pressed close to the iron bars. ‘Who do you think is up here — Kramer and company?’
‘It’s my nerves,’ Schaffer explained coldly. ‘You haven’t been through what Lieutenant Schaffer’s just been through. How are things up there?’
‘Carraciola and friends are face down on the roof, freezing to death in the snow and Mary has the Schmeisser on them. Jones is still up there. Won’t even put his head outside. Says he’s no head for heights. I’ve given up arguing with him. How are things your end?’
‘Quiet. If anyone is having any passing thoughts about the cable-car, there are no signs of it. Both doors to the courtyard are locked. They’re iron and even if someone does start having suspicious thoughts, they should hold them for a while. And, boss, the way I came in is strictly for the birds. And I mean strictly. What you need is wings. Your hand the way it is you could never make it. Mary and the old boy couldn’t try it. Carraciola and the rest — well, who cares about Carraciola and the rest.’
‘What winch controls are there?’ Smith asked.
‘Well, now.’ Schaffer approached the winch. ‘A small lever marked “Normal” and “Notfall” — ‘
‘Are there batteries down there?’ Smith interrupted.
‘Yeah. Any amount.’
‘Put the lever to “Notfall” — “Emergency.” They could cut off the main power from inside the castle.’
‘O.K., it’s done. Then there are Start and Stop buttons, a big mechanical handbrake and a gear lever affair marked “Forwards” and “Backwards”. With a neutral position.”
‘Start the motor,’ Smith ordered. Schaffer pressed the ‘Start’ button and a generator whined into life, building up to its maximum revolutions after perhaps ten seconds. ‘Now release the brake and select forward gear. If it works, stop the car and try the other gear.’
Schaffer released the brake and engaged gear, sliding the gear handle progressively over successive stops. The car moved forward, gently at first, but gathering speed until it was clear of the header station roof. After a few more feet Schaffer stopped the car, engaged reverse gear and brought the car back up into its original position. He looked up at Smith. ‘Smooth, huh?’
‘Lower it down till it’s half-way past the edge of the roof. We’ll slide down the rope on to the top of the cable-car then you can bring us up inside.’
‘Must be all the fish you eat,’ Schaffer said admiringly. He set the car in motion.
‘I’m sending Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen down first,’ Smith said. ‘I wouldn’t care for any of us to be on the top of the same cable-car as that lot. Think you can hold them till we get down?’
‘You don’t improve morale by being insulting to subordinate officers,’ Schaffer said coldly.
‘I didn’t know you’d any left. While you’re doing that I’ll have another go at persuading Juliet up there to come and join us.’ He prodded Carraciola with a far from gentle toe. ‘You first. Down that rope and on to the top of the cable-car.’
Carraciola straightened until he was kneeling, glanced down the slope of the roof to the depths of the valley beyond.
‘You’re not getting me on that lot. Not ever.’ He shook his head in finality, then stared up at Smith, his black eyes implacable in their hate. ‘Go on, shoot me. Kill me now.’
‘I’ll kill you if you ever try to escape,’ Smith said. ‘Don’t you know that, Carraciola?’
‘Sure I know it. But you won’t kill me in cold blood, just standing here. You’re a man of principle, aren’t you, Major? Ethics, that’s the word. The kind of noble sucker who risks his life to free an enemy soldier who might burn to death. Why don’t you shoot, Major?’
‘Because I don’t have to.’ With his left hand Smith grabbed Carradolia’s hair and jerked his head back till Carraciola, gasping with the pain of it, was staring skywards, while he reversed the grip on his Luger and raised it high. Nausea and pain flooded through him as the ends of the broken finger-bone grated together, but none of this showed in his face. ‘I just knock you out, tie a rope round your waist and lower you down over the edge, maybe eight or ten feet. Schaffer eases out the car till it touches you, then he climbs in the back door, goes to the front door and hauls you inside. You can see my right hand’s not too good, maybe I won’t be able to tie a secure enough knot round you, maybe I won’t be able to hold you, maybe Schaffer might let you go when he’s hauling you inside. I don’t much care, Carraciola.’
‘You double-dealing bastard!’ Tears of pain filled Carraciola’s eyes and his voice was low and venomous. ‘I swear to God I’ll live to make you wish you’d never met me.’
‘Too late.’ Smith thrust him away contemptuously and Carraciola had to grab wildly at the rope to prevent himself from sliding over the break of the roof. I’ve been wishing that ever since I found out who and what you really are. Vermin soil my hands. Move now or I damn well will shoot you. Why the hell should I bother taking you back to England?’
Carraciola believed him. He slid down the rope until first his feet then his hands found the security of the supporting bracket of the cable-car. Smith gestured with his gun towards Thomas. Thomas went without a word. Ten seconds later Christiansen followed him. Smith watched the cable-car begin to move up inside the station, then looked upwards to the window from which the rope dangled.
‘Mr. Jones?’
‘I’m still here.’ Carnaby-Jones’s voice had a quaver to it and he didn’t as much as venture to risk a glance over the window-sill.
‘Not for much longer, I hope,’ Smith said seriously. ‘They’ll be coming for you, Mr. Jones. They’ll be coming any moment now. I hate to say this, but I must. It is my duty to warn you what will happen to you, an enemy spy. You’ll be tortured, Mr. Jones — not simply everyday tortures like pulling out your teeth and toe-nails, but unspeakable tortures I can’t mention with Miss Ellison here — and then you’ll finish in the gas chambers. If you’re still alive.’