Fleming’s voice cut into his thoughts. Another briefing. He must have been over Guardian Angel a hundred times. To Fleming, the perfectionist, it was not enough. There always had to be one more.
The man’s eyes shone where only days before they had been grey and lacklustre. But Kruze could not read them and that worried him. He still felt Penny’s shadow across them both, and wasn’t sure whether he regarded Robert as friend or foe.
The Rhodesian, dressed in the dark civilian suit and reversible raincoat of his Rumanian alias, Stefan Krazianu, emissary of the crumbling government in Bucharest, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and tried to concentrate on Fleming’s instructions. Herries had told him it could save his life, as if he didn’t bloody well know it. He didn’t like the look of that nasty piece of work, either. It was an impression not eased by the fact that the man from military intelligence was sitting beside him in the full regalia of an Obersturmführer in the Waffen-SS, and the costume fitted him well.
“The Auster’s going to land with us on a frozen lake?” The incredulity in Herries’ voice brought Kruze back to the briefing. “It’s damned near spring, man. Where is there ice thick enough to support an aeroplane this time of year?”
“In the Bayerische Mountains,” Fleming replied. “There’s a large lake, south of Munich, close to the Austrian border, called the Achensee. The ice is still thick there; that’s where you’re going in.”
“But it’s about fifty miles from Munich! What happened to the original plan? I thought you were going to get us within walking distance of the city.”
Again, Kruze tried to fathom the man behind the voice. Was there panic there? It didn’t seem to gel with Staverton’s picture of the shepherd.
“We were, but it’s changed,” Fleming said. “As you know, the Auster was to have dropped you closer, but the Americans have advanced more rapidly than we anticipated in the last twenty-four hours. They’re almost at the suburbs and with the Luftwaffe getting jumpy an Allied aircraft is never going to be able to slip through without catching it in the neck. So we need to play safe. It was Staverton’s idea, not mine, but I’m sure that a man of your talents, Herries, will be able to overcome such obstacles. You should be there by first light tomorrow morning.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told us about?” Herries asked.
“Nothing. The rest of Guardian Angel is the same. Once in the city, make your way to the old centre, just south of the Englische Garten, that’s a long park that runs almost the length of Munich.”
“I know Munich,” Herries interrupted. “I spent some time there — before the war.”
“Of course,” Fleming said, “I should have remembered.” Herries’ training and indoctrination for the Britische Freikorps had taken place at the SS camp in Bad Tolz, just outside Munich. “I think quite a lot will have changed since your last visit.”
He paused, then turned suddenly to Kruze. “What’s the watchmaker’s address?”
“17 Piloty Strasse, ground floor. That’s where we find Schell and his boy.”
“What do you do there?”
“We bed down in the basement and wait for the watch-maker to finish our papers — the ones that will get us into Oberammergau.’’
“Right. And?”
“On no account are we to go out before we make the journey to Oberammergau.”
“Why?”
Kruze paused. It was pretty damned obvious why they shouldn’t leave the sanctuary of the forger’s safe house.
“Kampfgruppen,” Herries interrupted. “SS battle groups. If we’re spotted wandering aimlessly around the place we’re liable to get shot as deserters, or rounded up to serve in a KG unit.”
“What the hell are KG units?” Kruze asked.
“They’re sort of ad hoc platoons, organized by the SS, drawing from any personnel source they can find to plug the gaps,” Herries answered. “Once we get into one of those, who knows where we could get sent in the defence of the Reich.”
“But I’m supposed to be a Rumanian government official, a civilian,” Kruze said.
“The SS don’t care who you are,” Herries said, ice cold. “You could be an old man, or a child, but when you get assigned to a KG squad you don’t argue, believe me flyboy.”
Kruze saw the lip curl into a smile. The more he saw of the man, the more he disliked him. He kept on having to tell himself that, given the importance of the mission, Staverton would not have risked sending him in with anyone but the best.
“Once Schell has forged your papers, what’s your next move, Herries?” Fleming asked.
“We wait till midnight, take his car and set off for Oberammergau. It should only take a couple of hours.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. But there will be refugees, more road blocks than usual, American snipers maybe. And then?”
“We bluff our way onto the airfield.”
“Your excuse?”
“Kruze — er, Krazianu — has to be flown out to join rebel Rumanian Army units fighting the Russians outside Bucharest. I am his escort through Germany.”
“Remember,” Fleming said, “that you have to get to Oberammergau well before 0600.”
“To leave me enough time to become Rolf Peiper,” Kruze nodded. “If I go down behind Russian lines, the Soviets then have conclusive proof that it was the Germans who did away with their precious Marshal Shaposhnikov.” He leant back in his chair. “Staverton’s thought of everything.”
“Only as long as they find you dead,” Herries said, smiling. “Got your cyanide pills, flyboy?”
“I don’t need any,” the Rhodesian said, patting the Luger in his pocket.
“It’s not going to come to that,” Fleming interrupted. “We’ll get you back again, don’t worry.” He pressed on, conscious that he hadn’t sounded too convincing. “0600 is also significant, because—”
“That’s when the RAF attacks the airfield,” Herries cut in. “Look, Fleming, we know all the details. So when do we get out of here?”
“Soon enough, Herries. And to you, I’m still Wing Commander.”
Herries stared at his reflection in the gleaming surface of his polished jackboots and sneered. “Yes sir.”
“Let me get this part straight, once and for all,” Kruze said. “The strike will happen at 0600 and that’s when I’m to take a bombed-up 234, preferably one with long range tanks. What makes you think I can find one just waiting for me to take it?”
“The Germans are very consistent,” Fleming said. “We’ve had Oberammergau under high altitude surveillance for a long time. All the photographs have established a pattern. The 234s are readied for their dawn strikes throughout the night. There’ll be plenty of aircraft. You’ll have to exercise your own judgement as to which is the most suitable aircraft for the mission.”
Kruze nodded. It would have to do. “And the Meteors will keep the Germans’ heads down long enough for me to work out what the bloody hell I’m doing in an aircraft I’ve never flown before and then I take off.”
Fleming nodded. “Not forgetting to—”
“Waggle my wings when I’m airborne to show the Meteors it’s me. How are you explaining away a friendly pilot in the Luftwaffe’s latest operational bomber? I thought this op was so secret no one was meant to know about it outside these four walls, give or take a few people in Downing Street.”
“We’ll think of something,” Fleming said. “In the meantime, you’re to fly a two leg course to Branodz, low level all the way, using the maps sewn into your coat. The first leg will keep you in the mountains, your best chance for survival against Allied fighters, which are particularly active over southern Germany and Austria at the moment. You leave the mountains behind about thirty miles west of Salzburg and from then on you only have to worry about the Red Air Force.”