Gregory remained quite silent for a moment, studying the heavy, forceful face in front of him. It was serene but implacable. There was nothing cruel about it, nothing evil. It was fat with good-living, like those of the later Caesars and, like the best of them, still handsome in its rugged strength. The eyes, too, were quick with understanding and intelligence.
Hours earlier that evening when Gregory had first entered the great, silent apartment in which they stood he had believed that if he could once intrigue Goering with the story of his adventures his life would be safe. He had done so and they had dined together like the best of friends, yet he had lost that round.
Afterwards he had still believed that he might save his neck if he proved clever enough to clarify the Marshal’s ideas upon the European situation by putting forward possibilities with a bluntness that few Germans would have dared to use. He had done so; and to such a degree that he might, perhaps, even have altered the whole course of events in Europe for the next fifty years by influencing Goering’s decisions through the ambitious plans he had laid before him. But he had lost that round as well.
What was there left? An appeal to sentiment was utterly useless. Goering moved through life as a super-battleship ploughs the seas; he allowed nothing to deflect him from his course once he had set it, and all lesser vessels were forced to give way before his relentless progress. Having once decided that Gregory knew too much to be allowed to live, what possible argument could make him go back on his decision? He liked brave people and if he would not spare Gregory when he had shown himself to be a man of courage he would only treat him with contempt if he started to beg for mercy.
Gregory knew that he was up against the toughest proposition that he had ever encountered; but he felt no malice. Goering was an opponent worthy of his steel. If the sands of his life were really running out at last he could console himself with the thought that he had failed only because he had tried to move a mountain. It was no disgrace to have broken oneself against the implacable ‘Iron Hermann’.
With a little shrug he said: “Well, I suppose we might as well finish the magnum.”
“Certainly.” Goering refilled the champagne goblets for the third time and replaced the big bottle in its ice-bucket. “I don’t feel in a mood for company this evening so I shan’t go down and join my guests now. I shall set to work on this Russian business; but there’s no immediate hurry, as I never go to bed before two in the morning.”
“Good. In that case I may be able to help you.”
Goering grinned. “I was thinking of my interview with the Soviet Ambassador tomorrow; and although you’re a very clever fellow, Sallust, I don’t see how you can help me to bring pressure to bear on the Kremlin.”
“No. Nobody can help you there. I meant my scheme for persuading the Finns to resist Russia’s demand.”
“But you ask your life for that, and as I don’t think it possible, I’m not playing.”
“You can’t say whether it’s possible or not until you’ve heard it.”
“In my view, whatever your scheme might be, the general situation would make it impossible of application; because we are no better placed to exert pressure on the Finns than we are on the Russians.”
“I don’t agree; and since you won’t pay me for it I’ll give it to you for nothing.”
“Why should you?”
“Oh, I owe you something for having made the last evening of my life such an interesting one; and when I get to Hell I’ll make even Satan’s mouth water by a description of that bottle of Marcobrunner Cabinet 1900 you gave me for dinner.”
“All right, go ahead if you wish.”
“Tell me first what you know about the U.S.S.R. The German Secret Service is pretty good and a précis of all essential reports come to you. Russia is a closed book to most of us. Some people believe her to be the same old Russia of the Tsarist days; slow-moving, inefficient, with bribery and corruption rife everywhere; almost unlimited man-power still, of course, but not the organisation to operate one-tenth of it effectively. Other people believe that Russia has undergone a real rebirth; that her soldiers are now educated men, clean, efficient, proud of their country; and that Voroshilov has forged a weapon in the Soviet armies and air force which is the most powerful fighting-machine in the world. Few people can know the real truth but you must have a very shrewd idea of it.”
“The first is the case.” Goering lit a cigarette and drew heavily upon it. “Russia remains unchanged in all essentials. Their attitude is very much ‘Nichevo, nichevo!’—never do today what you can put off till tomorrow—just as they used to say in the past. Their Air Force is big—very big. That is why if the Soviet had tied up with the Democracies it might have done considerable damage in Berlin during the first few weeks of the war. Numbers cannot possibly be ignored in such matters and the Soviet pilots are brave men, as they proved in Spain. But aircraft types get out of date more quickly than any other arm. The Soviet Air Force reached its peak as a weapon three years ago and plane for plane the Russians wouldn’t stand a dog’s chance against any of the more modern types that we or the Western Powers now have.”
Gregory nodded. “I thought as much. How about the army?”
“There are two armies in Russia. The Army proper is very big in numbers but is composed mainly of conscripts who are ill-armed, ill-officered and ill-fed. They’re not even up to the standard of the reserve battalions of Moujiks which the Tsar sent against us in 1915. None of these units is equipped with the most modern weapons—apart from tanks—because the Kremlin has always been afraid of an Army Putsch. Stalin has deliberately starved the Army proper of equipment, to ensure his own political battalions having at least a great superiority of weapon-power over the ordinary troops if it ever came to a show-down with the Generals.
“Those political battalions form an army in themselves but a much smaller one, numbering some 300,000 men. Every man in them is a Communist Party member admitted only after the severest tests—in the same way as our S.S. men here. They have the best of everything—food, quarters, women—and would fight tooth and nail to protect the Government that ensures them these privileges. They are commanded by Budenny, who is Voroshilov’s most trusted man, and both are completely loyal to the Kremlin.”
Gregory swallowed another couple of mouthfuls of the iced champagne. “I take it, then, that the Kremlin would not risk sending its political battalions against the Finns but would use the main army which you say is in such poor condition?”
“Naturally. They will rely on sheer weight of numbers to smash the Mannerheim Line because it doesn’t matter how many of their conscripts they kill; whereas large losses among their crack political troops would leave the Kremlin Government exposed to the danger of an internal revolution.”
“Do you think such mass attacks by inferior troops will be sufficient to overcome the Finnish resistance within—say—a month?”
“I doubt it; because it is not only the troops that are of such poor quality; they will be worse led than any other army in Europe.”
“Do you mean because Stalin has bumped off so many of his best officers in these constant purges since the Tukachevsky conspiracy of 1937?”
Goering nodded. “It’s been infinitely worse than most people suppose. There’s no doubt that Stalin nipped the Tukaschevsky conspiracy only just in time. Nearly every officer of importance was involved in it and the Ogpu have been tracing them up ever since. During the last two years he has liquidated 75 out of 80 members of the Supreme War Council, 13 out of 19 Army commanders and 195 Divisional commanders. Altogether they have murdered 350 odd generals, but even that is not the worst of it. Over 30,000 officers of all ranks have been slaughtered.”
“Thirty thousand!” Gregory exclaimed.
“Yes. That means that hardly an officer above the rank of major has been spared and practically all their qualified staff officers have been eliminated. Men who were captains last year are now commanding divisions and sergeants have become company commanders overnight. The Navy and the Air Force have suffered equally in proportion. The result is bound to be absolute chaos when the Soviet forces are called on to undertake a full-scale campaign.”
“You have, of course, irrefutable proof of this in your Secret Service files?” Gregory asked.
“Certainly. We have far too many agents operating in Russia for them all to be mistaken.”
“How much of this do you think the Finns know?”
“A little, perhaps; but not very much compared with ourselves. Finland is a small country and her resources are limited. For every agent the Finns have working in Russia we probably have a hundred.”
“Good. Now, what you’ve told me more than confirms my own suspicions, and this is the plan I had in mind. Get the facts from Berlin and sit up all night compiling a full report upon the Soviet Army and Air Force, backed by all the available evidence.”
A quick smile lit Goering’s eyes. “I see the idea! You’re suggesting that I should tip off the Finnish Government that the main Red Army is only cardboard.”
“Exactly. There can be no doubt that Marshal Mannerheim would rather fight than give in and from what we know of the Finnish War of Independence I’m certain that most of the Finns are with him. But the Government is the snag. Politicians are not soldiers; the thought of their cities lying in ruins and their women and children being bombed to Hell makes them prepared to go to almost any lengths rather than go to war. If only you can convince the Finnish Cabinet that their country will not be overrun immediately and that in spite of Russia’s numerical superiority there’s a good chance of their being able to hold out until other countries and the February snows come to their assistance, you’ll have done the trick—you’ll have saved Finland as a possible base for future German operations when the present war is over.”
Goering shook his head. “I believe it could be done; but one thing makes such a course impossible. To convince them that the reports are genuine I should have to send a personal emissary with full authority to let the Finns know that, whatever Germany’s ostensible attitude may be, I am behind them. That would mean going behind the Fuehrer’s back. Himmler’s agents are everywhere, even in the highest offices of the Government. There are very few people indeed that even I can absolutely trust, and those few are marked men. If one of them disappeared Himmler would send out a general call through his Foreign Department, U.A.-1. Every Gestapo agent outside Germany would be turned on to hunt for my man; his presence in Helsinki would be discovered and reported, and that alone would be sufficient to give away the fact that I had been trying to double-cross von Ribbentrop. I’m not frightened of him—I can take care of myself and I’m a much bigger man than he is—but there would be hell to pay, and I’m not ready for a showdown with him yet.”
“I feared the problem of a suitable emissary would prove a knotty one,” Gregory nodded; “because anyone you send on such a mission must be a man of some standing, otherwise the Finns might become suspicious and get it into their heads that he was not sent by you at all. But surely you can find some aristocrat—an Army man for preference—who is outside politics—someone important enough to impress the Finns and at the same time a man whom you could completely trust—someone, for example, like our late friend, Colonel-Baron von Lutz?”
In spite of its size the room was now blue with the smoke of innumerable cigarettes, yet Goering lit another and puffed upon it. “Yes, someone like that,” he murmured. “Von Lutz would have been just the man, but he’s dead; and unfortunately, where a month ago I could have found a dozen like him who would have done equally well, they were all either killed or have gone into hiding as a result of the Army Putsch.”
Gregory smiled. “Then it seems there’s nothing else for it. If you’re to pull this job off—and you must, for the sake of your own future and that of Germany—you’ll just have to send me.”
“You?” Goering exclaimed.
“Yes; why not?” Gregory grinned now that he had whipped the cover from the life-boat which he had been secretly fashioning for himself during the last few moments, and hurried on: “Nobody knows that the Baron is dead. He might have been burnt in that cottage last night or he might have escaped. Even if the S.S. men find his body in the woods the news of his death will never get as far as Finland, because he wasn’t important enough for it to be reported to the Gestapo agents there. I’m wearing his clothes at the moment and although our faces weren’t alike our build was much the same. I am a born impostor, and as I spent the best part of three weeks in hiding with the Baron I know all about his family and his whole history. All you have to do is to furnish me with a passport in the Baron’s name and an aeroplane. Haven’t you realised yet that I can be darned useful to you alive whereas I’ll be no good to anybody once I’m dead?”
Goering began to pace rapidly up and down. “That’s all very well, but how do I know that I can trust you? You’re an Englishman. Why should you offer to work for Germany? To save your life, you may say; but I should not believe that. You are not the kind of man who betrays his country.”
“To do as I suggest would not be betraying my country,” said Gregory swiftly. “In this instance the interests of Britain and Germany are identical. Britain has always championed the small nations so she would naturally be anxious that the Finns should retain their independence. Further: if Russia’s demands are resisted, and she is compelled to fight for what she wants, that will give her an even better excuse than any she has at present for delaying in sending supplies to Germany. That is the price—a very small one, in my opinion—which you must pay if you are to save Finland as a possible base for future operations. But I’m concerned with this war, not the next; and by providing Russia with a spot of bother, so that she is less able to help you, I’m assisting my own country. As far as the future is concerned, I don’t see why the Western Powers should object to Germany’s compensating herself for her lack of colonies by absorbing Southern Russia and making Asiatic Russia a German protectorate.”
“Ha! And what about the right of self-determination that you English talk so much about. You would say we were enslaving the Russians—or some such nonsense.”
“The population of Central and North-Eastern Asia is no more Russian than that of India is English or that of Senegal French. I don’t think that question would arise, providing you allowed the true Russians to retain self-government in their own original Muscovite territories. What really matters is that the German race would no longer menace future peace if it had sufficient room in which to spread. Given Russia’s vast Asiatic lands in addition to the Reich, Germany could afford to give up Czechoslovakia and Poland as she would still have about one-fifth of the world’s land-surface—more than enough room for her surplus population. With such an area to administer and develop she need never again come into collision with the Western Powers over the colonial question and there might at last be some real hope of peace in our time. I would not dream of undertaking this mission if I were not convinced that in serving you I should also be serving Britain.”
“Yes, yes. If we had the Ukraine, the Caucasus and all Asiatic Russia our problem would be solved for good. But if you wouldn’t double-cross me with your own people you might with the Gestapo. How am I to know that you’d not take any papers I gave you straight to Himmler?”
“I should have thought you had a perfect guarantee against that.”
“Guarantee? What d’you mean?”
Gregory shrugged. “What am I doing here? Why did I put my neck in a noose by coming to see you? Only because I was desperately anxious to find out what had happened to Erika.”
“Of course—of course.”
“And now you’ve told me that she’s in Finland, isn’t her presence there the best guarantee you could possibly have that the one thing I’m anxious to do is to get to Finland myself so that I can join her?”
“That’s true. Yes, I believe you’re honest. But it’s a hellish risk.” Goering’s voice still held doubt as he began to pace swiftly up and down again. “Say you slip up and are caught by Himmler’s agents, with those papers on you?”
Gregory’s pulses were racing. He knew that he was on the very verge of victory. If he could storm the last redoubt of Goering’s resistance by yet one more reasoned argument his case would be won; he and Charlton would walk out of Karinhall free men and with facilities for escaping out of Germany. Nerving himself for a final effort he swilled down the last of his champagne, and said earnestly:
“Listen. What have you to fear? In serving you I serve my country. I have the strongest possible personal motive for wanting to go to Finland, because it is only by doing so that I can rejoin the woman I love. If I do slip up, that will be tough luck on me, but there’ll be no come-back whatsoever so far as you’re concerned. There would be if I were really Colonel-Baron von Lutz or any other German that you might choose to send. But I’m not a German; I’m a British secret agent, and any rigorous examination would prove that. I’m the one and only man you can send with complete safety, because if I’m caught you could deny all knowledge of me—swear I’d stolen the papers—and everybody would believe you.”
“By God, you’re right!” Goering swung round. “Very well—I’ll send you to Finland.”
Even the masterly control with which Gregory was usually able to hide his true feelings was not proof against the glint of triumph which leapt into his eyes. To conceal it he bent forward and helped himself to another of the fat cigarettes. As he lit it, with his eyes cast down towards its tip, he could feel his heart thumping a rhythm in his chest. “I’ve won! I’ve won! I’ve won!” But all he said as he flicked out the match was: “Good. How soon can I start?”
Goering had suddenly become a different man. All trace of the indecision so foreign to his nature had left him. With his dark eyes fixed on Gregory he said rapidly: “Now that the crisis is on every hour is of importance. You will leave the moment we have the papers ready. I shall send you in one of my private planes. I can trust my own pilots and one of them will not be missed while away on a twenty-four-hour trip.”
“He’ll have to observe the usual formalities when we land at the Helsinki air-port, though,” Gregory remarked, “and he might easily be recognised. I should think it’s a hundred to one that Himmler has planted one of his spies among the personnel there.”
“That’s true,” Goering frowned.
“Don’t worry about that. You let me have the plane and I’ll provide the pilot.”
“Ah! You mean the fellow downstairs? I’d forgotten all about him. Is he a good man—competent to fly a Messerschmitt—and would he also be willing to go to Finland?”
“He’s one of the best pilots in the R.A.F. and he’ll fly anything anywhere rather than be interned in Germany for the duration of the war.”
“He won’t bring my plane back, though.”
“No. You can hardly expect him to do that. But what the hell does one plane matter on a job like this?”
“Nothing at all. But no comment would be aroused among the Finns if a German pilot in a German plane just flew in and out to drop you there; whereas a British pilot arriving with a German officer in a German plane would cause every tongue to wag.”
“I agree. But in any case I couldn’t go in uniform. You’ll have to let me have a suit of civilian clothes and you could easily provide me with a double set of papers; one faked British passport in my own name for me to show on landing at the air-port and one passport in the name of Colonel-Baron von Lutz for presentation to the people at the Finnish Foreign Office. I should then be a British subject arriving with a British pilot.”
“But what about the plane?”
“Don’t let’s use a Messerschmitt. You must have some foreign make in your private fleet that might quite as naturally be flown by a British instead of a German pilot. All we’d have to do then is to paint out the German markings and substitute the British circles for the German crosses.”
Goering nodded. “I have a four-seater Belgian Sabina which would do admirably. It is their fastest type and fitted with de-icing apparatus. I’ll let you have that. And now to work.”
Although it was well after midnight, within a few moments the big apartment became a hive of activity. Half a dozen officers, forming Goering’s confidential secretariat, were summoned and to each the Marshal gave brief, clear instructions.
Three were dispatched to Berlin; one to the Foreign Office to arrange about the passports, and the other two to collect files from the Air Ministry and the War Office respectively. A fourth was ordered to find Gregory a complete change of clothes. A fifth was told to give immediate instructions for the alterations of the markings on the Belgian plane, then to collect Charlton and work out with him, from the latest weather reports and maps of the Baltic, the navigation details of a flight to Finland; while the sixth was sent running to bring all the available reports on Russia from Goering’s private files.
The man who was going to the Foreign Office fetched a camera and photographed Gregory, both in uniform and in a borrowed civilian overcoat, for the two passports. Then two clerks brought in a typewriter on a wheeled desk. Immediately the reports arrived Goering flung off his coat and sitting down, in his shirt-sleeves, at his big table he began to dictate.
As Gregory stood behind him, reading snatches of the reports over the Marshal’s shoulder, he was filled with amazement and admiration at the spectacle of the man who had created the new Germany exercising his extraordinary brain. Every now and again Goering mopped the perspiration from his broad forehead as he sweated out the alcohol that he had drunk—and was still drinking, for the deaf-mute barman had appeared again and had opened another magnum of champagne. With pauses of only a moment the Marshal was absorbing whole pages of typescript with a sponge-like rapidity and condensing them into brief paragraphs. He missed nothing of importance and his words poured out in a swift, unhesitating flow. The typist’s fingers positively flew over the keys as he took the dictation, and the other man who had come in with him constantly prepared fresh foolscap paper and carbons so that there should be the least possible delay in changing sheets at the end of each page.
Gregory very soon realised that there were not going to be any half-measures about the report. Goering was giving an abbreviated but detailed account of the whole building-up of the Red Army. He seemed to know the personal history of every general of importance, the state of moral of every army corps and the positions they now occupied.
At half past two in the morning the first of the three officers who had been sent to Berlin arrived back with another mass of papers. Soon afterwards his colleague who had visited the War Office came in with yet more files. They remained there sorting them as though their very lives depended on it; scanning sheet after sheet and pulling out only those of importance for the Marshal’s perusal. “Keep that,” or “Scrap that,” was all Goering said after a second’s glance at each paper that was handed to him.
By four o’clock he had turned his attention to the Soviet Air Force and was giving detail after detail about the various types of Russian planes, their speed, their numbers, their positions; then he passed to bombs, personnel, flight efficiency, petrol reserves, capacity of training-centres.
At a little before five the man who had been to the Foreign Office came in. He had with him the passport for Colonel-Baron von Lutz, but they were still busy faking the British passport in the name of Gregory Sallust and he said that it would be sent out to Karinhall by six o’clock.
With him he also brought a fresh pile of papers and shortly after his arrival Goering turned from the subject of the Air Force to the Russian political scene. Each of the sixteen commissars, who between them made up the three committees which rule Russia, was given a long paragraph—bribable or unbribable, married or single, private life, antecedents, secret vices—everything which might assist a foreign Power in shaping its policy towards these men should they suddenly come into special prominence.
At ten minutes past six Goering suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up. The job was done.
In one Herculean effort, which would have taken most men weeks of hard, conscientious preparation, he had compiled a document of 126 foolscap sheets which would give the Finns every vital fact that Germany knew about Russia and would show Russia’s weakness.
For a few moments he sat quite still, while the officers withdrew their depleted files, then he dictated a letter which ran:
“Karinhall,
“November 28th, 1939.
“The bearer of this is my friend, Colonel-Baron von Lutz. The Baron will hand to you a document of the first importance. With the information therein, for which I personally vouch, the Finnish Government will realise that they have little to fear from an attack by Russia.
“At the moment Germany is in no position to make an official pronouncement but I cannot too strongly stress our hope that the Finnish Government will resist the Russian demands, with the knowledge that time is on their side and that in secret I shall do everything possible to assist them.”
The speed-typist and his assistant left the room. Goering signed the letter, took the top copy of the report and three sheafs of original documents from the piles that his aides-de-camp had sorted out, thrust them into a large stout envelope and handed the whole bundle to Gregory with von Pleisen’s Iron Cross, as he said:
“The letter has no superscription but you will take it to Monsieur Grado Wuolijoki—Monsieur Wuo-li-joki—at the Finnish Foreign Office. He is of German extraction, on his mother’s side, and my personal friend. He will see that these papers reach the right quarter.”
Gregory removed the letter, which he folded and put in his pocket as he wished to keep it handy so that he could destroy it at once in the event of any accident by which the plane might be forced down while still over Germany.
“I understand,” he said. “That was a marvellous night’s work you put in and I’m certain that you’ll never regret it. By the bye, I suppose you can let me have some money? As the Colonel-Baron and your secret representative I should naturally put up at the best hotel when I reach Helsinki.” Actually, he still had nearly £300 on him, being the balance of the 5,000 marks that Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust had given him before his first trip into Germany, but Gregory had always believed in ‘spoiling the Egyptians’ and saw no reason why the Nazis should not pay his expenses in Finland.
Goering nodded. “Certainly. I like my people to put up a good show.” As he spoke he walked over to a large painting of Napoleon Bonaparte which was opposite his desk and, feeling behind the edge of its gilt frame, twisted a concealed knob to a combination that he evidently carried in his mind. The picture and its frame swung noiselessly outward revealing an enormous wall-safe, with many shelves and compartments, to the six-inch-thick steel door of which the picture was affixed.
Picking up a fat packet of bank-notes from one of the shelves he began to count them, but at that moment the telephone buzzer sounded. Thrusting the packet into Gregory’s hands the Marshal said impatiently: “Here! Take 3,000 marks from this. That should be enough and give you a good margin to bribe your way into the Finnish Foreign Office quickly if the small people show any signs of keeping you waiting.”
“Thanks.” The packet consisted of 100-mark notes and Gregory counted himself off thirty from it while Goering carried on a quick conversation at the telephone. As Gregory was holding the bundle he felt an uneven strip across its bottom and turning it over he saw that some very thin, folded sheets of paper were wedged under the thick rubber band which held the notes together. The sheets were so thin that he could see the typescript through the top one. It might be just a check list of the numbers of the notes. On the other hand, it might be something of importance which had got caught in the rubber band by mistake. Anything coming out of Goering’s private safe was worth investigation and the Marshal still had his back turned at the telephone. Gregory knew that if he stole the ‘flimsies’, and they were missed immediately, his life would once more be forfeit, but the temptation to find out what the typescript was proved irresistible. Slipping it from under the rubber band he swiftly pushed it in his pocket; then, so that he should not have to hand the bundle back he replaced it on the shelf of the safe from which it had been taken.
The Marshal finished his telephoning, turned round, gave a glance at the notes Gregory still held in his hand and swung the safe door shut again. He was no longer perspiring and looked as fresh as if he had slept the night through.
“We’ll have some breakfast now,” he smiled, “then I’ll snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before I see the Soviet Ambassador.”
In the private dining-room breakfast had already been prepared; real coffee, crisp white rolls, fresh butter, eggs, fish, sausage and cheese. As he sat down Goering’s personality changed again, and it was impossible to believe that he was the same person who had been working so furiously all through the night. He talked, like any country gentleman entertaining a guest, of the wild life on his estate, and mentioned quite casually that he meant to get back from Berlin by midday to join the guns as he had a shooting-party staying in the house.
When the meal was done he summoned the aide-de-camp who had been charged with providing a change of clothes for Gregory and told him to see that his guest had everything he needed until he could start on his journey. Then, as they went out into the corridor he shook Gregory warmly by the hand.
“Good luck, my dear fellow. It’s been a pleasure to see you here and when the war is over you must come and stay. We’ll kill some more bottles of Marcobrunner, and I really can offer you some excellent shooting.”
“Thanks. I’ve enjoyed myself enormously,” Gregory said politely, and was inwardly tickled by the fantastic idea which flashed into his mind—that possibly his host expected him to write a bread-and-butter letter. Obviously the Marshal had completely forgotten for the time being that at just about that hour his guest would have been led out to die at his orders had it not been for that guest’s own wits and determination to save himself.
The A.D.C. took Gregory to a suite where he bathed, shaved and changed. He retained his own shoes and took the opportunity to slip the typescript he had stolen into the false sole of one of them, where he still had most of the money he had brought into Germany. He then rejoined the A.D.C., who led him downstairs and through a long corridor to an underground aerodrome.
Charlton was there, haggard and weary-eyed. He had been given dinner, but after that the poor fellow had been left all night in the waiting-room and owing to his acute anxiety he had not been able to get one wink of sleep. Yet when he saw Gregory he smiled and nodded cheerfully towards the Belgian plane which now carried the red, white and blue British circles.
“Nice little bus, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Gregory nodded. “The Marshal’s giving it to us as a parting present, I managed to entertain him rather well at dinner last night.”
Freddie grunted. “You might at least have sent down to let me know that things were all right. I suppose for the last eight hours you’ve been sleeping your head off?”
“Not all the time. As a matter of fact, the Marshal kept me up pretty late but he was so hospitable that I found it a little difficult to get away.”
“You old devil!” Freddie laughed. “Anyhow. I’m mighty glad to see you—er—looking so fresh,” he added as an afterthought.
“Thanks. I’m sorry you had such a dull time last night, but I see you’ve had a shave so I take it they looked after you this morning?”
“Oh, yes; they couldn’t have been nicer—bath, slap-up breakfast, everything—they even produced a change of underclothes when I hinted that mine were due for the long service medal.”
“Good! And the Air Officer gave you all the particulars you require for our flight to Finland?”
“Yes. I’ve got it all here.” Freddie held up a small, fat wallet. “And orders have been telephoned through to Anti-Aircraft Headquarters that they’re not to interfere with a small Belgian Sabina plane bearing British markings which will be flying over North-Eastern Germany for a special purpose.”
“Yes. I fixed that with the Marshal. So long as you stick to the route you’ve been given we’re ensured a clear run out of the country.”
The plane had been fuelled to capacity as it was desirable to avoid any questioning which might have arisen by breaking their journey at air-ports along the route, but with only two people on board, instead of the four for which it was built, the Sabina was easily capable of carrying enough petrol for a 700-mile non-stop flight. Directly it was reported ready Gregory and Freddie got into it.
Gregory put his big packet of papers on his knees and felt in his pocket to make quite certain that his two passports and Goering’s letter were there all right. The head mechanic signalled to Freddie and the engine sprang to sudden life, making a deafening roar in the underground air-port. They waved good-bye to the Air Officer and mechanics, then the plane ran smoothly up the long slope out into the daylight and across the grass. A moment later it was in the air.
“So you’ve got us out—and the gift of a plane into the bargain,” Freddie said, the moment he had taken off. “You certainly are a wizard.”
“No—just a worker,” Gregory replied. “And, my God, it was a fight! I had to wrestle with Satan in person for about five hours and work for another six, so I’m about all-in. I’ll tell you the story later but I’ve been through the hell of a strain and I’m going to try to get some sleep now.”
He closed his eyes and lay back in the comfortable passenger-seat beside the pilot. It was not until ten minutes later that he suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and opening his eyes again he saw that the altimeter registered 8,000 feet.
“It’s darned cold up here,” he remarked. “Surely we don’t need to fly as high as this?”
“Oh, yes, we do,” Freddie grinned. “I’m going much higher—as high as the plane will take us without our conking out through lack of oxygen.”
“But why?” Gregory protested. “You’ve got your route and the anti-aircraft people have been told to let us through.”
“Yes; but that’s only along a lane over North-Eastern Germany.”
“Naturally—since we’re going to Finland.”
“Finland?” gasped Freddie. “Surely you didn’t really mean to go there?”
Gregory sat up with a jerk. “Of course. I’ve been entrusted with a special mission by Goering so I’ve got no option.”
“Good God, you are crazy! Finland? My foot! Thanks a lot for the plane, but now I’ve got it I’m going home!”