Glenn Meade (21 page)

Salter laughed. 'Give us a break,
Harvey
. Of course I
bloody am. If I conducted business any other way I'd be nailed in my coffin by
now.'

Deacon ran a hand over the
paintwork, and Salter said, 'Feel free to check the merchandise. You're the
customer.'

Deacon sat in the Jeep and started
the ignition. The engine throbbed smoothly. He climbed out and looked under the
hood with Hassan's help. 'It looks fine,' Deacon pronounced, dusting his hands.

'Would I do you a bad deal?' Salter
handed him the vehicle's papers. 'All in order, I think you'll find.'

Deacon examined the papers. 'They
seem OK, right enough.

What about the uniforms?'

Salter clicked his fingers at one
of his men. 'Get the other stuff from inside, Joey.’

The man went into the warehouse
and returned carrying a couple of bulging military kit-bags over his shoulders.
Salter opened one and emptied some of the contents on the ground.

An American captain's uniform, and
a military police sergeant's uniform, both with all the trimmings, including a
couple of holstered Colt.45 pistols and two American M3 'grease gun'
machine-pistols, with extra ammunition clips for each.

'Everything you ordered. Better
check, though, just to be certain.'

Deacon examined the contents of
each of the kit-bags, and Salter said, 'Happy?'

'It all looks good.'

'Another five hundred shekels, I
think we said.'

'The uniforms and weapons I want
delivered to the club later tonight. Use the delivery entrance, and for God's
sake be discreet.'

'It's my middle name.'

'You're sure it's not a problem
leaving the Jeep for a couple of days, until I need it?'

'Not so long as you pay the agreed
storage it's not.'

Deacon removed an envelope from
his pocket and handed it over. Salter riffled through the notes, then slid the
envelope into his pocket. 'A pleasure to do business with you, Harvey.'

'We haven't finished yet. What
about the trucks?'

Salter lit a cheroot and scratched
his jaw. 'I'm afraid we're having a bit of temporary bother with those, ain't
we, Costas?'

The Greek shrugged. 'It seems the
army's laying its hands on every vehicle it can right now,
Harvey
. God knows why, but there's a shortage
of trucks about. Don't worry, we'll do our best.'

'Your best isn't good enough,'
Deacon said worriedly. 'I have to be certain I'll have those trucks within the
next two days.'

There was a hint of desperation in
his voice that Salter didn't fail to notice, and he said reassuringly, 'I'll
look after it personally,
Harvey
,
no sweat. They'll be here, and on time, even if I have to nick them myself.
That's a definite promise.'

'Good.' Deacon looked relieved,
nodded to Hassan and turned to go. 'You'll be in touch?’

'As soon as I have word, old son.'

Salter watched them leave the
yard, and when they had gone called over two of his men. 'You know what to do.
Everywhere Deacon goes, anyone he sees, I want to know about it. Fuck this up
on me and let him spot you, and you'll be crocodile bait, understand?'

'Sure, Reggie.'

The men left. Costas sidled over.
He grinned crookedly at Salter. 'You think it'll work?'

Salter cracked his knuckles. 'It
had bloody well better, Costas, old son. We lost five grand to those thieving
Arab gits last night and I intend to recover our losses. Whatever's going on,
we're going to get a piece of it, whether Deacon and his mates like it or not.'

The Luftwaffe aerodrome at Gatow
was busy that afternoon as Schellenberg's Mercedes passed through the barrier,
followed by a covered truck carrying Haider and the others. They pulled up
beside a locked hangar, and Schellenberg led them in through a side door. An
aircraft was parked inside, its fuselage painted in sand-coloured camouflage,
no markings or roundels to identify it. A half-dozen mechanics were working
away, while two pilots were busy in the cockpit.

'Vito!' Schellenberg called out,
and the man in the captain's seat waved through the window, then moments later
appeared at the fuselage door and came down the metal steps. 'Herr General.'

'And how is our transport coming
along?'

Vito Falconi was tall for an
Italian, very handsome, with dark curly hair and a fine Roman nose, and rather
dashing-looking with it. He was also quite old for a combat pilot, in his late
thirties. He wore a Luftwaffe leather flying jacket, a white silk scarf knotted
at his neck, his eyes full of restless energy.

'Bene. I took her up twice this
morning, and she handles remarkably well.' He turned to Haider and shook his
hand warmly. 'Jack, you're still alive, I see.'

'Hello, Vito. It's been a while.’

Falconi smiled. 'And I'm not
exactly sure it's good to see you again. Not after I heard it was your idea to
pick me to fly this mission. Are you trying to get me killed? So, how are you,
my friend?'

'Between despair and middling.'

Falconi laughed. 'Aren't we all.
This damned war has everyone on edge. And what are you up to now? Something so
top secret the whole future of the war depends on it?'

'You'd better ask the Herr General
that.'

'All none of your business, Vito,
I'm afraid,' Schellenberg said lightly, and made the introductions. 'Meet
Gruppenkommandant Falconi, your pilot. He'll be taking you all the way to
Egypt
.'

Vito took Rachel's hand and kissed
it. 'A pleasure, bella signorina. And may I say you're the best-looking
passenger I've had in a long time.'

'Pay no attention to Vito,'
Schellenberg remarked. 'He's a first-class charmer.'

Kleist interrupted, a sour look on
his face. 'Herr General, the pilot's Italian. Why not German? The cowardly
bastards surrendered to the enemy. All they've ever done is give us trouble.

As for their pilots, everyone
knows they're useless. You may as well give us our death certificates here and
now.'

Falconi gave Kleist a frosty look.
'In case you hadn't heard, thousands of Italian dead lie as far east as the
outskirts of
Moscow
and the ruins of
Stalingrad
. I think that counts for something, don't
you?'

Schellenberg glared at Kleist.
'Quite so. And I wouldn't worry about the Gruppenkommandant's flying abilities.
He's been seconded to the Luftwaffe as an instructor since 1940, and is one of
the best we have. He's also had a lot of experience flying in
Africa
.
Since before the war, in fact, so you're in safe hands.'

'With respect, you must be doing
your recruiting in some low places these days,' Falconi said to Schellenberg.
'Your friend here had really better improve his attitude. Two minutes in his
company and already I've had enough.'

Schellenberg said pointedly to
Kleist, 'Curb your tongue, and watch your manners. I also hear from Major
Haider you're getting a little out of hand. Just remember he's in total charge
of this part of the operation, so show him the proper respect. That's an
order.'

Kleist grimaced, and drew himself
up. 'Yes, Herr General.'

'And now, Vito, I suppose you'd
better explain about our transport.'

Falconi led them over to the
sand-camouflaged aircraft and Haider said, 'What's this, for God's sake?'

'An American C-47 cargo plane,
otherwise known as the Dakota, or rather more affectionately as the Gooney
Bird.

Probably the best transporter the
Allies have. This particular beauty ran out of fuel and ditched in a field in
northern
Italy
,
fortunately with only minor undercarriage damage. An SS patrol was in the area
and managed to get to her before the pilot could blow her up. She was repaired
and transported to Luftwaffe special operations.'

'So what's the idea?'

'The Dakota's as common as
ditch-water in the Allied air forces. So from our point of view, she's ideal.'

'You mean to help us sneak past
the Allied air defenses?'

Falconi grinned. 'Exactly.'

'It was Vito's idea,' Schellenberg
explained. 'And there are two more aircraft just like them, for our friend the
colonel. This way, we have a chance of getting you to your destination without
coming under suspicion from enemy coastal patrols.'

'And they're pretty tight at the
moment, from what I hear,'

Falconi offered. 'Their Spitfires
and Tomahawks are out hunting day and night, and they're damned good. Luftwaffe
bomber squadrons based in
Italy
have been trying to hit
Sicily
and Alex in the last few weeks, but with considerable losses. Most of the poor
bastards have been shot down before they even reached their targets.'

'All very ominous for us,' Haider
remarked. 'Won't we need Allied aircraft markings? Surely there's a risk we
could get blown out of the sky by one of their air patrols?'

'When we land in
Rome
for refuelling, American markings will
be painted on. We'll have a slight advantage using
Italy
as our departure point, because the Allies tend to focus their attention on the
air traffic from German fields in Rhodes and
Athens
,
seeing as they're closer to
North Africa
. Once
we're on our way, to all intents and purposes we'll look like a US Air Force
plane going about its lawful business.' Falconi smiled.

'And just in case you're worried,
we'll be cleared with Luftwaffe command as far as southern
Italy
, so
there's no danger of being shot down by our own side before we even get under
way.'

'And after that?' Haider asked.

'The route we'll take down to
North Africa
will be mostly over sea. When we reach the
desert airfield, I'll land and let you disembark, then take off again
immediately. The Dakota's been fitted with an extra tank, so I'll have more
than enough fuel to get me back to
Rome
.'

'What happens if the Allied air defenses
intercept us and call you up on the radio?'

Falconi shrugged bleakly. 'That's
a possibility, of course. But if it happens, I'm afraid we'll just have to try
to muddle our way through. You see, we really wouldn't know if they tried to
call us up on the radio.'

'Why?'

'For security reasons, they change
their communications frequencies daily, sometimes even for each patrol, so
we've no way of knowing what the frequency might be.'

'But their aircraft would try to
make contact somehow if we didn't respond?'

Falconi nodded. 'If normal
communications didn't do the trick, they'd try to do it visually with a signal
code, either with Morse-keyed lights which Allied aircraft have mounted under
their fuselage, or with a Very flare gun. Or then again, they might not even
bother with a signal code, and just shoot us out of the skies.'

'That really inspires me with
confidence, Vito. Any other good news?'

Falconi laughed. 'We do have the
slight advantage of flying one of their aircraft. They'll be less likely to
shoot first and ask questions later. Which might give us a chance to bluff our
way out if they think our communications or electrics are dead, and we can make
a run for it, if necessary.'

'That's hardly a likely option if
we come up against a night fighter. They'd have us for speed.'

Schellenberg interrupted. 'Like I
said, Jack, there are risks.

But you're well aware Vito's done
this sort of run over enemy territory before. You're in excellent hands.'

'It's the weather I'm really more
concerned about,' Falconi admitted to Haider. 'The met reports indicate a
pretty nasty front moving in rapidly across the Med. It looks like
thunderstorms all the way down to Alex for the next twenty-four hours, and
sandstorms along the north Egyptian coast.'

'Marvellous.'

'But the good news is I'm hoping
the bad weather will keep any enemy coastal patrols firmly on the ground.'

'You really think we'll be safe?'
Rachel asked.

Falconi smiled, all charm.
'There's a war on, bella signorina. And no one is entirely safe, especially in
our situation. But even the Devil has his good days, and since I've lived this
long, he obviously hasn't let me down so far.'

'And just to lay your minds at
rest,' Schellenberg put in, 'I have a team of the Luftwaffe's finest mechanics
waiting in
Rome
to give the aircraft a final inspection. The last thing we want is technical
trouble during your flight - it could prove disastrous.

Are we almost ready, Vito?'

'My co-pilot, Remer, and I were
just finishing our checks.'

Schellenberg searched the faces
around him. 'No further questions? Good. Climb aboard and stow away your
things.

We'll be getting under way
shortly.'

It was almost one o'clock when the
Dakota finally lifted off the long Gatow runway. Falconi climbed to fourteen thousand
feet before letting the young Luftwaffe co-pilot take over the controls, while
he consulted the route maps.

In the back of the aircraft,
Haider sat on the floor beside Rachel, while Kleist and Doling sat opposite.
Schellenberg was up near the front, stretched out on the floor with his arms
folded, his briefcase clutched to his chest, his officer's cap tilted over his
eyes as he tried to sleep. The C-47 was pretty basic, with no seats and a
lattice of canvas cargo webbing hanging along the fuselage walls. Once they had
reached their cruise altitude, Haider began to feel the cold, and he noticed
that Rachel looked pale and drawn.

'How do you feel?'

'Tired and freezing.'

'It's a long flight. I'll see if I
can find something to keep out the chill'

He went to get a couple of the
blankets from one of the stowage bins, but when he came back Rachel was already
fast asleep, curled up like a child, her head to one side.

Haider placed a blanket over her,
then for some inexplicable reason he leaned over and gently kissed her on the
nape of the neck. Across the aircraft, he noticed Kleist stare at him and say
something under his breath to Doring, and the two SS men sniggered. Then Kleist
glared at him boldly, eyes filled with something close to hate.

Haider ignored the provocation,
covered himself with a blanket and tipped his hat over his eyes. The drone of
the'

Dakota's twin engines quickly
lulled him to sleep.