He had no other plan, for which reason he had told the guide not to wait more than an hour. He himself was prepared to stay there all night, and all the next day, if necessary.

It was obviously not much use standing outside, so he went in through big revolving doors to find himself in a reception hall of some size, furnished with the customary appointments. The office, with its counter and rack of keys, was at the far end near the foot of a broad flight of stairs. Near it was a cloakroom. On either side were doors, one leading into a lounge and the other to the dining-room. Near the door of the lounge, a lift was operated by a uniformed attendant. The usual chairs and settees, with occasional tables near them, were arranged round the walls to leave an open s.p.a.ce in the centre.

Sitting about were, perhaps, a dozen men, alone or in pairs, some talking, others reading newspapers. So much Biggles took in at a glance.

He walked over to a settee near the lift, intending to sit and watch it for a while. It was occupied by one man, who sat at one end half hidden by a newspaper in which he appeared to be engrossed. Tobacco smoke spiralled up from behind the printed pages.

Paying no attention to him, Biggles sat down in a position from which he could keep an eye on the stairs, the lift, the lounge and the dining-room.

He was feeling for his cigarette case when his companion on the settee lowered his newspaper. His attention being elsewhere, he did not notice this until a voice spoke. He paused imperceptibly in the act of taking a cigarette from his case. Then he turned his head, to meet the sardonic eyes of Erich von Stalhein.

'Good evening, Bigglesworth. I was hoping you'd look in.'

Biggles finished lighting his cigarette before he answered. He needed a moment to recover. 'It was nice of you to come along,' he replied. 'Dear me! How you do get about.'

'You're quite a traveller yourself, you know,' came back von Stalhein suavely. 'On this occasion, however, I fear you have given yourself a fruitless journey. You were, I presume, looking for a young man named Ross?'

'What gave you that idea?' questioned Biggles.

'Call it instinct,' answered von Stalhein, smiling. 'It pains me to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you won't find Ross here.'

'No?'

'No. He left here about an hour ago. By now he should be many miles from Berlin.'

Biggles' eyes searched the face of his old enemy, and he decided that he was telling the truth, for the simple reason that there was no need for him to lie. Had Ross still been in the hotel von Stalhein could have said so without risk of losing him.

'I'm sorry about that,' said Biggles evenly. 'Still, it was worth coming here if only to have a word with you. We so seldom have time to compare notes.'

'Surely that's your fault,' protested von Stalhein. 'I wonder you don't exhaust yourself rushing about the world as you do.'

'I like rushing about,' a.s.serted Biggles, who was thinking fast. 'It keeps me alive.'

'One day it will defeat that object,' said von Stalhein gravely. 'Indeed, it may have already done so. By the way, Bigglesworth, you have disappointed me.'

'I'm sorry about that. In what way?'

'I always understood that in your country it is considered bad form to wear a club or regimental tie to which one is not ent.i.tled.'

Biggles fingered his tie, laughing softly. 'Yours looked so attractive that I succ.u.mbed to temptation. I knew, I must admit, that it was rather a" er a" exclusive.' He became serious. 'Tell me, why did you decide to join a club, an organisation, which at one time I am sure you would have regarded with abhorrence?'

Von Stalhein sighed. 'We are not always masters of our destiny'

'That's where you're wrong,' argued Biggles. 'You could be yourself if you could get that grievance bug out of your brain. Do you think you are helping Germany by what you are doing?'

Von Stalhein stiffened. 'That's my business.'

'It seems a pity,' murmured Biggles. 'One day we must go into it, and I guarantee to convince you that tea tastes better on my side of the fence.

I can't stop now. Don't forget I have to find Ross.'

'You will have to go a long, long way.'

'That will be nothing new to me,' averred Biggles. Actually, he hardly knew what he was saying, for his brain was occupied with something very different. He had been playing for time, and so, for some reason not apparent, had von Stalhein.

Biggles had been watching the movements of the lift attendant who, from time to time, when his services were not required, did odd jobs, such as folding newspapers thrown down carelessly. He now began to empty the ashtrays on nearby tables into a bowl which he kept handy for the purpose. Biggles had not failed to notice, too, that von Stalhein's eyes went constantly to the main entrance, as if he was expecting someone.

When, through the revolving doors, marched a Russian patrol, he understood.

'Well, think over what I've said,' murmured Biggles, reaching casually for the newspaper that lay between them. 'I shall have to be going.

Here's your paper.' He flicked the journal into von Stalhein's face and in the same movement vaulted over the back of the settee. Two steps took him to the lift. He slammed the gate and pressed the first b.u.t.ton that his finger found. Von Stalhein had moved almost as quickly, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The lift shot upwards.

Biggles counted the floors as they flashed past. The lift stopped at the third. He stepped out. A long, carpeted corridor ran to left and right.

To the right, a man in a dressing-gown, towels over his arm, was crossing the pa.s.sage, apparently going to a bathroom. Biggles walked along, his eyes on the door of the vacated room. It stood ajar.

Just inside was a hat and coat stand. Several garments hung on it. They included a Russian officer's cap and greatcoat.

He lifted them off and strode on to the end of the corridor. Another pa.s.sage ran at right-angles. Half-way down it a red light glowed. Putting on the cap and coat as he walked he went on to it and found, as he expected, a door under the red light marked 'Fire Exit.'

Opening the door he saw a narrow stone stairway spiralling downwards. He went down.

The stairway, he knew, was bound to end at the ground floor. It did, in a stone pa.s.sage with doors on either side, from behind which came the rattle of crockery. A man, white clad, wearing a chef's tall hat, came out of one of the doors, singing to himself. He looked at Biggles curiously, but said nothing.

'I've lost my way,' said Biggles apologetically. 'Where is the nearest exit?'

The man pointed. 'It is the staff entrance,' he explained. Danke,'

thanked Biggles, and strolled on to the door.

It opened into a dingy little side street. As he stepped out he heard whistles blowing and orders being shouted. Two soldiers came running round the corner. Biggles, already walking towards them, continued to do so, not daring to turn. The men steadied their pace as they pa.s.sed him, saluting. Biggles returned their salute and went on without a backward glance.

Presently, to his chagrin, he found himself in the Zindenplatzer, with the main hotel entrance twenty yards to his right. Von Stalhein was standing on the steps, gesticulating as he spoke to several uniformed men. Biggles turned the other way. He would have done so in any case, as it was the direction of the corner where he had left his guide. He found the entrance to the bierhaus and, turning in, saw his man sitting alone at a small table with a gla.s.s of beer in front of him. There were several other men there, mostly soldiers, but their attention was on a girl at the end of the room, singing at a piano.

Biggles touched his guide on the arm. At first he was not recognised, and the man started guiltily. But when recognition came the man moved in such haste that he nearly knocked his beer over.

'Let's get along,' said Biggles quietly. 'I'm afraid I've started something at the hotel.'

The man needed no persuasion. It was clear that he did not want to be involved. Without a word he went out into the street and hurried along, with Biggles beside him, until they came to a less frequented street, into which they turned. Several cars, travelling at high speed, overtook them, but none stopped. Once they met a police patrol on foot. The leader saluted. Biggles acknowledged.

More narrow streets and the guide turned into an iron gate Biggles recognised it as the one by which they had entered the Soviet Zone. There were, he suspected, from the length of the halls, two houses, built back-to-back. Through them they reached the British Zone.

'Take off those clothes,' said the guide in an agitated voice. 'We may meet a British patrol. Without giving you a chance to prove who you are they may hurry you back into the Soviet Zone. Russians may be watching, too. We are still too close to be safe.'

Biggles lost no time in divesting himself of his borrowed uniform.

Presently he threw the cap and coat over the parapet of a bridge into a river. 'They should start a pretty little mystery when they're found,' he remarked.

'Forget everything that has happened,' advised the guide as he went on.

'That won't be easy, but I'll try,' agreed Biggles. 'I had an awkward five minutes. An old friend was waiting for me in the hotel. I had to leave somewhat hurriedly.'

'It often happens that way,' said the guide simply.

A cruising taxi came along. Biggles stopped it. Five minutes later he dropped his companion at the house where he had picked him up. He did not go in.

'Give my compliments to Major Boyd and tell him everything went off all right,'

requested Biggles. 'Goodnight, and many thanks.'

Under his direction the taxi then went on to the Airport Hotel where he, and the others, had found accommodation.

'Well, how did you get on?' greeted Algy, when he walked in. 'You didn't get Ross?'

Biggles dropped wearily into a chair. 'No. Von Stalhein was there, waiting. Shook me, I don't mind telling you. My own fault. I should have reckoned on the possibility. He knows I'm after Ross. Naturally, he made things a bit difficult a" or would have done, given the chance. Either his plans went wrong or else I arrived a bit too soon for him.

Push the bell. I could do with a drink.'

'What about Ross?'

'He's gone.'

'He wasn't in Berlin very long.'

'No, and I can guess why. Once von Stalhein realised I was after him he'd get him out of reach a" as he thinks a" as quickly as possible.'

'And now what?'

'It looks as if we shall have to go East, after all. We took a chance on coming here. It didn't work, that's all. Oh, well! I'm tired. Walking never did agree with me.'

'When are we pulling out of here?'

'Right away, before von Stalhein can organise any unpleasantness. You can fly me home. I'll s.n.a.t.c.h some sleep on the way. Don't forget we've got to cross the Russian Zone to get out. Maybe I'm getting nervous, but it would be like von Stalhein to put some Yaks in the air with orders to find a Proctor. Get the machine laid on, one of you, and we'll go home.'

CHAPTER X.

The Air Commodore is Worried.

The following afternoon found Biggles in Air Commodore Raymond's office, standing in front of the huge wall map of the world, narrating the events of the previous forty-eight hours, the strain of which was beginning to show on his face. He was, in fact, tired, and as a result of this his manner was inclined to be brusque. Present also at the conference was Major Charles, of the Intelligence Service, and a senior official of the Foreign Office. Their attendance had been requested by the Air Commodore, who thought they ought to hear what Biggles had to say.

'It all boils down to this,' stated Biggles, who had run over the main features of the affair.

'Our operation, from the military or political aspect, was successful in that we have good reason to think we know why these wretched soldiers were induced to desert. The scheme is not confined to Britain. I spoke to Marcel Brissac on the way home, and he has ascertained that there have been a series of desertions from the French Army, too. No doubt a check-up would reveal that the same thing has been going on in all the military forces of all the United Nations. It is a dirty business, but there it is. After all, if top scientists and government officials can be persuaded to turn traitor, there is nothing surprising in the fact that soldiers, mostly men of lower education, have been induced to do the same thing.'

'These propaganda broadcasts may sound silly to people of intelligence, but they are a menace,' declared Major Charles. 'We knew the general direction from which these Far Eastern broadcasts were coming, but we haven't been able to locate the actual site of the station. It is, presumably, a new one. The general trend of the broadcasts is an appeal to the United Nations Forces to stop fighting a" to refrain from killing innocent people, as they so nicely put it. We shall have to try to put an end to it.'

'Aside from the broad official aspect of the thing I have a personal interest in the matter,'

resumed Biggles. 'Indeed, I should say a moral obligation. For the original deserters I have very little sympathy; no doubt they are feeling pretty sick with themselves; but I was instrumental in getting Guardsman Ross into the miserable position in which he now finds himself. I told him that, whatever happened, I'd get him out. The fact that he did a good job, all that was asked of him, makes it all the more imperative that we should not let him down. That the trail leads to the far side of the world, instead of being confined to Europe as was supposed, makes no difference. Had it been humanly possible I would have gone straight on after him; but it would have been worse than futile to try to cross the U.S.S.R. and China with such equipment as I had available. That's why I came home.

What I want now is authority to make my own plans to collect Ross and bring him back here.'

There was silence for a moment. The Air Commodore looked doubtful. 'Such an operation would be in the nature of a forlorn hope.'

'You can call it what you like,' returned Biggles. 'The fact remains.'

'Just a minute,' put in Major Charles. 'Let us get the thing in perspective. It seems to me that we have here two objectives. One is the silencing of this radio station. The other is the rescue of an operative who has become involved. From the national angle the first is by far the most important.'

'From my angle, the second is the vital one,' said Biggles shortly.

'The first question to be decided,' went on Major Charles imperturbably, 'is whether to treat each operation separately, or combine them and deal with them as one?'

The representative of the Foreign Office joined in the argument, addressing himself to Major Charles. 'When you talk about silencing this station, what exactly have you in mind? You will not, I hope, overlook the fact that we are not at war with Manchuria?'

'I trust you're not going to quibble about that?' interposed Biggles trenchantly. 'Any place that is used as a base by the enemies of this country is at war with us as far as I'm concerned. If Manchuria set up a bleat, you could ask them what they're doing with our men.'

The Air Commodore forced a tolerant smile. 'All right. Let us stick to the point. We are agreed that we have two objectives before us. The question is: are they to be tackled together or separately?'

'That's not for me to answer,' said Biggles. 'My main concern is Ross.'

'What about the other fellows in the camp, if they should want to come home?' queried Major Charles. 'Are you going to bring Ross home alone, or will you give them all a chance to get out?'

'That will depend on how many there are of them,' contended Biggles.

'There would be a limit to what I could take. I certainly wouldn't try to persuade these men to come, if they don't want to. If they like Communism, they can have it a" until the time comes when they wish they'd never heard of it.'

The Air Commodore resumed. 'Very well, Bigglesworth. Let us take your angle first.

You want to fetch Ross home?'

'Yes.'

'How would you go about it, bearing in mind that we know nothing about this place Kratsen?'

'I should start by finding out something about it, by air photography, if nothing else. In broad terms, as Kratsen is practically on the coast according to the map, I should take out a marine aircraft, basing it in j.a.panese or South Korean waters. The business of making contact with Ross would depend on how much I could learn about the place. I might put someone in to get the layout of the camp.'

'Only a Chinese could do that.'

'I realise it. I have one in mind.'

The Air Commodore's eyebrows went up. 'You know a Chinese who would do that?'