'No. We don't want to exhaust all your Thespian stamina.'

'My what?' Schaffer asked suspiciously. 'That sounds kinda like a nasty crack to me.'

'Your acting resources. The only other impersonation you'll be called to make tonight is that of Lieutenant Schaffer, OSS, the innocent American abroad.'

'That shouldn't be too difficult,' Schaffer said bitterly. He draped the overalls he'd just removed over the unconscious pilot. 'A cold night. Anyway, the telephone exchange.'

'Soon. But I'd like to check first how far they've got with old Carnaby-Jones. Let's take a look.'

Two floors higher up and midway along the central pa.s.sage Smith stopped outside a doorway. At a nod from him, Schaffer reached for a light switch. Except for a faint glow of light at either end, the pa.s.sage was now completely dark. Smith laid a gentle hand on the door-k.n.o.b and quietly eased the door open. Fifteen inches, no more. Both men swiftly slid through the narrow gap, Smith quickly and softly closing the door to again.

The room, if so enormous a chamber could be called a room, must have been at least seventy feet long by thirty wide. The farther end of the room was brightly and warmly lit by three large chandeliers: comparatively, the end of the room where Smith and Schaffer stood was shrouded in near darkness.

They stood, not on the floor, but on a platform some dozen feet above the floor. It was a ma.s.sive and grotesquely carved oaken minstrels' gallery which completely spanned the thirty-foot width of that end and ran perhaps a quarter of the way down both the longer sides of the room. There were rows of wooden benches, an organ on one side of the door through which they had just pa.s.sed, a battery of organ pipes on the other. Whoever had built that place had obviously liked the organ and choir-singing: or maybe he just thought he did. From the centre of the front of the gallery, opposite the rear door, a flight of steps with intricately scrolled wooden banisters led down to what was very obviously the gold drawing-room.

It was aptly named, Smith thought. Everything in it was gold or golden or gilt. The enormous wall-to-wall carpet was deep gold in colour, the thickness of the pile would have turned a polar bear green with envy. The heavy baroque furniture, all twisted snakes and gargoyles' heads, was gilt, the huge couches and chairs covered in a dusty gold lame. The chandeliers were gilded and, above the enormous white and gilt-plated fireplace, in which a crackling pine log fire burned, hung an almost equally enormous white and gilt-plated mirror. The great heavy curtains could have been made from beaten gold. The ceiling-high oak panelling, was a mistake, it continued to look obstinately like oak panelling, maybe the original covering gold paint had worn off. All in all, Smith reflected, it was a room only a mad Bavarian monarch could have conceived of, far less lived in.

Three men were seated comfortably round the great fire, to all appearances having an amicable discussion over after-dinner coffee and brandy, which was being served to them from -- almost inevitably -- a golden trolley by Anne-Marie.

Anne-Marie, like the panelling was a disappointment: instead of a gold lame dress she wore a long white silk sheath gown which, admittedly, went very well with her blonde colouring and snow-tan. She looked as if she were about to leave for the opera.

The man with his back to him Smith had never seen before but, because he immediately recognised who the other men were, knew who this man must be: Colonel Paul Kramer, Deputy Chief of the German Secret Service, regarded by M.I.6 as having the most brilliant and formidable brain in German Intelligence. The man to watch, Smith knew, the man to fear. It was said of Kramer that he never made the same mistake twice -- and that no one could remember when he'd last made a mistake for the first time.

As Smith watched, Colonel Kramer stirred, poured some more brandy from a Napoleon bottle by his side and looked first at the man on his left, a tall, ageing, but still good-looking man in the uniform of a Reichsmarschall of the Wehrmacht -- at that moment, wearing a very glum expression on his face -- then at the man seated opposite, an iron-grey-haired and very distinguished looking character in the uniform of a lieutenant general of the U.S. Army. Without a comptometer to hand, it was difficult to say which of the two generals was wearing the more decorations.

Kramer sipped his brandy and said wearily: 'You make things very difficult for me, General Carnaby. Very, very difficult indeed/

'The difficulties are of your own making, my dear Kramer,' Cartwright Jones said easily. 'Yours and General Rosemeyer's here... There is no difficulty.' He turned to Anne-Marie and smiled. 'If I might have some more 'of that excellent brandy, my dear. My word, we've nothing like this in SHAEF. Marooned in your Alpine redoubt or not, you people know how to look after yourselves.'

In the gloom at the back of the minstrels' gallery, Schaffer nudged Smith with his elbow.

'What gives with old Carnaby-Jones knocking back the Napoleon, then?' he asked in a low indignant murmur. 'Why isn't he being turned on a spit or having the French fits coming out. of scopolamine?'

'Sssh!' Smith's nudge carried a great deal more weight and authority than Schaffer's had done.

Jones smiled his thanks as Anne-Marie poured him some more brandy, sipped from the gla.s.s, sighed in satisfaction and continued: 'Or have you forgotten, General Rosemeyer, that Germany is also a signatory to The Hague conventions?'

'I haven't forgotten,' Rosemeyer said uncomfortably. 'And if I had my way... General, my hands are tied. I1 have my orders from Berlin.'

'And you can tell Berlin all they're ent.i.tled to know,' Jones said easily. 'I am General -- Lieutenant General -- George Cam-by, United States Army.'

'And Chief Co-ordinator of Planning for the Second Front,' Rosemeyer added morosely.

'The Second Front?' Jones asked with interest. 'What's that?'

Rosemeyer said heavily and with earnest gravity: 'General, I've done all I can. You must believe me. For thirty-six hours now, I've held off Berlin. I've persuaded -- I've tried to persuade the High Command that the mere fact of your capture will compel the Allies to alter all their invasion plans. But this, it seems, is not enough. For the last time, may I request -- '

'General George Carnaby,' Jones said calmly. 'United States Army.'

'I expected nothing else,' Rosemeyer admitted tiredly. 'How could I expect anything else from a senior army officer? I'm afraid the matter is now in Colonel Kramer's hands.'

Jones sipped some more brandy and eyed Kramer thoughtfully. "The Colonel doesn't seem very happy about it either.'

'I'm not,' Kramer said. 'But the matter is out of my hands, too. ,1 also have my orders. Anne-Marie will attend to the rest of it.'

'This charming young lady?' Jones was politely incredulous. 'A maestro of the thumb-screw?'

'Of the hypodermic syringe,' Kramer said shortly. 'She used to be a trained nurse.' A bell rang and Kramer picked up a phone by his side. 'Yes? Ah! They have, of course, been searched? Very good. Now.' He looked across at Jones. 'Well, well, well. Some interesting company coming up, General.

Very interesting indeed. Parachutists. A rescue team -- for you. I'm sure you'll be delighted to meet one another.'

'I really can't imagine what you're talking about,' Jones said idly.

'The rescue team we've seen before,' Smith murmured to Schaffer. 'And no doubt we'll be renewing old acquaintances before long. Come on.'

'What? Now?' Schaffer jerked an urgent thumb in the direction of Jones. 'Just when they're going to get to work on him?'

'Out of your social depth, Lieutenant,' Smith whispered. 'They're civilised. First, they finish the brandy. Then the works.'

'It's like I said,' Schaffer said mournfully. "I'm from Montana.'

The two men left as quietly as they had come and as quietly closed the door behind them. Against the loom of light at either end of the corridor, they could see that the pa.s.sage-way was clear. Smith switched on the light. They walked briskly along the pa.s.sage, dropped down a flight of stairs, turned left and halted outside a doorway which bore above it the legend

TELEFON ZENTRALE.

'Telephone exchange,' Schaffer said.

Smith shook his head in admiration, put his ear to the door, dropped to one knee, peered through the keyhole and, while still in that position, softly tried the handle. Whatever slight sound he made was masked by the m.u.f.fled sound of a voice speaking over a telephone. The door was locked. Smith slowly released the handle, straightened and shook his head.

'Suspicious bunch of devils,' Schaffer said sourly. The skeletons.'

'The operator would hear us. Next door.'

Next door wasn't locked. The door gave before Smith's pressure on the handle. The room beyond was in total darkness and appeared to be empty.

'Moment, bitte !' a cold voice said behind them.

Quickly, but not too quickly, Smith and Schaffer turned round. A few feet away stood a soldier, levelled carbine in his hand, his eyes moving in active suspicion from the two men to the kit-bag in Smith's hands. Smith glared at the man, raised an imperative forefinger to his lips.

'Dammkopf' Smith's voice was a low furious whisper through clenched teeth. 'Silenz Englander!'

He turned away impatiently and peered tensely through the partly-opened doorway. Again he held up an imperious hand that commanded silence. After a few more seconds he straightened, lips compressed, looked significantly at Schaffer and moved slightly to one side. Schaffer took his position and started peering in turn. Curiosity, Smith could see, was replacing suspicion in the soldier's face. Schaffer straightened and said softly: 'What in G.o.d's name do we do?'

'I don't know,' Smith said in a worried whisper. 'Colonel Kramer told me he wanted them alive. But -- '

'What is it?' the soldier demanded in a voice as low as their own. With the mention of Colonel Kramer the last of his suspicions had gone. 'Who is it?'

'You still here,' Smith said irritably. 'All right, go on. Have a look. But be quick!'