Glenn Meade (27 page)

'We're close, maybe eight miles
away or less, but there's not a chance in hell,' Falconi replied grimly. 'I'm
going to have to try and crash-land.'

'After all our trouble that's all
we need.'

Haider looked out of the cockpit,
but could see nothing.

They were down to six hundred feet
and back into the sandstorm.

Falconi applied full power, but
the engines barely reacted.

'It's no use,' he cried. 'She
won't respond.'

At that precise moment the engines
died. There was a frightening silence, broken only by the sound of the wind on
the wings, and then the Dakota dipped sickeningly.

'Our engines are out!' Falconi
shouted. 'Strap yourself in, Jack. And be quick about it!'

'What about the others?'

'There's no time. Brace yourself!'

Haider scrambled into the wireless
operator's seat and fastened the harness. There was a terrible sinking feeling,
and then the sand flurries thinned and he saw the desert rushing up at them
fast. He braced himself for the impact.

At the last moment Falconi pulled
back hard on the column, the Dakota lifted a little, but then sank again. They
hit the ground with a terrible force. There was a grating sensation as they
ploughed across the sand, then the left wing seemed to hit something and the
aircraft flipped over.

It was still dark when Canaris
arrived at the hospital in Charlottenburg just before eight that morning. When
he saw the carnage and destruction he almost wept. Bodies had been laid out in
the grounds in a long line, damp white sheets covering them, looking like an
array of ghosts in the light drizzle of rain. The
Berlin
fire brigade was still working
furiously and one half of the building was a smouldering ruin, wisps rising
from the charred remains, an acrid tang of smoke in the air.

When his Mercedes drew up on the
gravel and he stepped out, a doctor wearing a bloodied white coat came up to
greet him. 'Herr Admiral, I'm Dr Schumacher.'

'Herr Doctor. Not a pleasant
sight. How many dead?'

'Fifty-seven patients and four
staff.'

Canaris's jaw tightened, but he
was hardly surprised by the news. Parts of
Berlin
he had just driven through were a
desolate ruin after last night's raid. 'My God, it gets worse.

And the boy?'

'He's barely alive, in a very bad
way. He was bad to start with of course, but now-' The doctor shrugged
helplessly. 'You instructed me to call you if anything happened concerning the
child-’

'Of course.' Canaris sighed
deeply. 'You'd better take me inside.'

An emergency ward had been set up
in one of the undamaged basement storage rooms, tilly lamps offering the only
emergency light, and when Canaris went in the place was bedlam, with orderlies
and staff trying to tend the sick and wounded. The doctor led him to a
curtained-off cubicle. A nurse and another doctor were with the boy.

'How is he?' Canaris asked.

'Not too good.'

Canaris looked down at the child's
innocent face and wanted to weep. His eyes were closed and his head and pelvis
were wrapped in bloodied gauze, his breath just a faint wheeze. 'Pauli, can you
hear me?'

The child didn't react, and one of
the doctors said, 'You're wasting your time. He's in deep shock.'

'What happened?'

'A bomb hit-'

'I know all about the bloody
bombs,' Canaris erupted. 'They haven't stopped all week. What exactly happened
to him?'

'A shell came through the ceiling
of a nearby ward. The blast shattered the walls. Falling masonry crushed his
pelvis and caused severe head injuries.'

Canaris pursed his mouth. 'His
chances?'

Both doctors exchanged looks, then
one of them shook his head. 'Can't you do anything?' Canaris begged.

'I'm afraid it's quite hopeless.
I'm surprised he's even lasted this long.'

At that moment the nurse said, 'I
think he's going, Doctor.'

A few minutes later the child
moaned and gave a tiny gasp, his chest deflated and his eyelids flickered. The
doctors went to work, but it was useless. The child's head slumped to one side,
he went still, and the life passed out of him.

'He's gone,' the doctor said
finally.

Canaris had seen death before,
many times, but the passing of someone so young was a heart-wrenching thing to
witness. He was deeply upset as he looked down at the innocent dead face.

'The poor child,' he said, and
there were tears in his eyes.

Canaris was in his office an hour
later, writing a report, when the adjutant showed in a tired-looking
Schellenberg. The admiral didn't rise but tossed his pen aside and gestured to
a chair. 'Sit down.'

His tone was gruff, but
Schellenberg sat and Canaris said, 'You got my message?'

Schellenberg managed to look
suitably grieved. 'Yes. A terrible calamity. But then what do you expect from
Roosevelt and Churchill? They send bombers to destroy our cities, to kill and
maim our-'

'Shut up, Schellenberg. I'm not in
the mood for one of Goebbels' speeches. You promised Haider you'd have his son
transferred to a hospital outside
Berlin
.
He was very specific about that, so why didn't you?'

Schellenberg bristled at the
accusation in Canaris's voice.

'I'm not sure I like your tone.'

'Just answer the question, God
damn you. Why?'

'I only got back from
Rome
an hour ago. There
wasn't time.'

'You had time before you left.'

'Not really.'

'Damn you again, Schellenberg! If
you'd done what you promised, the boy would be alive now.'

Schellenberg stood and pushed back
his chair angrily. 'I don't have to take this from you.'

'Sit down. I'm not finished. You
also lied to Rachel Stern.'

Schellenberg frowned. 'About
what?'

'Her father. I checked with
Dachau
. According to
their records, Professor Stern was never delivered to the camp after his arrest
four years ago. What's going on, Schellenberg? Did your Gestapo friends do
their dirty work after he was arrested? No doubt he was shot or beaten to death
in those cellars of yours. Or maybe he's still rotting there? You lied to me,
didn't you?’

Schellenberg gave an indifferent
shrug. 'Lying and subterfuge are all part of this game. You know that as well
as I do.

True, I didn't tell you the full
story. But what of it?'

'So, it all comes out now. You
fooled the woman, and you failed to keep your promise to Haider - the one thing
he asked of you. His only concern was that his son would be looked after.

He loved the boy deeply. You're
despicable, Schellenberg, you and every one of your bloody-minded Gestapo and
SS friends.

You've brought this country to the
abyss. But you know what really makes me sick? To know that we're all going
straight to hell together.'

Schellenberg ignored the outburst.
'Don't you want to know the mission status?'

'Oddly enough, at this moment I
couldn't seem to care less.'

Which was a lie, of course, but
Canaris strove to hide his curiosity. He was still struggling with his
conscience for having had to betray Haider and Rachel Stern, no matter how
necessary he considered that betrayal to be, and it weighed heavily on him.

'The Dakota has disappeared. It
either crashed, was forced to land on enemy soil, or was shot down. That agent
of yours at Abu Sammar whom I used sent a radio message an hour ago, relayed
from
Rome
, to
say the aircraft never showed up at the rendezvous. And it certainly didn't
return to
Italy
.'

This time Canaris turned pale.
Perhaps his message to Sylvia had got through? The knowledge that he might have
contributed to the deaths of Haider and the woman caused him a painful spasm of
remorse. Later, he would certainly wallow privately in his grief for the loss
of innocent lives. 'I see.' He looked shocked and saddened. 'It's over, then?
They're either dead or captured?'

'I'm afraid so.'»

Weaver woke to the sound of a
muezzin's cry. He had spent half the night sleeping badly on a borrowed cot bed
in his office, and when he stood his body was covered with aches and pains. The
clapboard windows were closed, and he had a splitting headache from rereading
all the files on Arab sympathisers.

He rubbed his face and opened the
windows. Dawn rose over
Cairo
,
silhouetting the rooftops and the ancient citadel built by the Turks. Just
after midnight he had come across something that had roused his interest. An
Arab about the same age as Gabar who had worked as a houseboy for the German
embassy before the war. He was employed in a radio shop in the
Old
Town
,
which had certainly made Weaver stop and think, and he wondered how he had
missed the man first time round.

His address was in the file. He
jotted it down in his notebook.

He would check him out first thing
that morning. A shower and shave would be in order first, but as he went to
pick up his cap to leave for his villa, the door opened and Helen Kane came in,
carrying a tray of steaming coffee and a plate of fresh bread rolls.

'I thought you might want breakfast.'

'You're in early.'

'It's dedication,' she said with a
smile. 'Did you sleep OK?'

'Tossed and turned through most of
the night, I'm afraid.'

'A pity I couldn't have kept you
company.'

'Lieutenant Kane, don't even tempt
me with a thought like that.' Weaver smiled back.

When she put the tray down on his
desk, he barely sipped the coffee before reaching for his cap. 'I can't stay,
Helen. When Sanson gets in tell him I should be back in a couple of hours. I'll
be out looking for one of our sympathisers. His file's on my desk.'

'But there's a report that just
came in you ought to know about. I'll get it for you.'

'No, tell me, it'll save time.'

'There was a curious incident up
in Alex. We received details on the teleprinter from RAF Command just a few
minutes ago.'

Weaver nodded. 'What kind of
incident?'

'An aircraft on coastal patrol, an
RAF Beaufighter with 201 Group, reported an unidentified American Dakota flying
northwest of Alex. The pilot went to intercept, but it appears the tower lost
contact and the Beaufighter vanished. There was a pretty bad sandstorm blowing
at the time and flying conditions were atrocious.'

'What about the Dakota?'

Helen Kane shook her head. 'They
don't seem to know what happened to it either. Alex Coastal Command are
suggesting the Dakota could have been an intruder, and they've asked Cairo RAF
HQ to put out an alert for either aircraft, or their wreckage, in case they
were destroyed or crash-landed because of the storm. They thought we'd like to
know about it.'

Weaver went to the wall map. He
studied it for several moments as he considered the information, then looked
back, mildly excited. 'Check with RAF HQ and find out if they've come up with
anything more on the Dakota.'

'And if they haven't?'

'Ask if they know its heading when
the Beaufighter first made contact, and if they've any further information they
can give us.'

'I'll do it straight away.'

Weaver tossed his cap aside, his
excitement growing. He could check out the Arab suspect later. 'Then call
Sanson and tell him to get here as fast as he can.'

Haider woke with a terrible
headache, a savage breeze blowing sand in his face. The cockpit glass had
shattered and he was still strapped into the wireless operator's seat. The
aircraft was turned over on its left side, and his head was badly bruised where
it had cracked against one of the overhead panels. Remer hung from his seat
harness at a grotesque angle, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes wide
open in death, and Falconi was slumped in his seat and groaning in pain.

Haider shielded his face from the
gritty wind, and called out, 'Are you hurt, Vito?'

'My foot's caught. I can't move.'

Haider undid his harness and moved
forward. Falconi's right foot was trapped under one of the rudder pedals, which
was a tangle of twisted metal, and there was a deep, bleeding gash below his
knee. Haider quickly took off his belt and tied it firmly above the cut to try
to stop the bleeding, then attempted to work the foot free, but it was no use.
'It's too tight. I'll need help.'

Falconi stared at his co-pilot's
body. 'The poor bastard. He was only twenty-two.'

'Not your fault in the
circumstances. You did well to get us down.’

'Even the Devil has his bad days.
I think the port wing slewed into a sandbank, just after we hit the deck.'

The storm raged outside and Haider
turned anxiously towards the cabin door, Rachel's fate the only thing on his
mind.

'Try not to move. I'll see if the
others made it.'

He moved back through the cabin
fuselage. It was in better shape than the cockpit, crumpled in places but still
completely intact. Kleist was helping Doring to his feet and Rachel was nursing
a bleeding cut on her head. She looked to be in shock.

'Are you all right?' Haider asked.

'I held on tight as we went in,
but it didn't stop me from being thrown about when we crashed. What happened?'

He told her and she frowned. 'I
don't understand. Why didn't the plane catch fire?'

'The fuel lines were ruptured and
the tanks bled empty. At least you can thank the RAF for that. Let me have a
look at your head.' He examined the wound. 'It doesn't look too bad. How do you
feel?'

'Like someone's hit me with a
hammer.'

He loosened the cotton scarf at
her neck, placed it on the wound, and put her hand on top. 'Hold on to that
until the bleeding stops.' He helped her up, then said to Kleist and Doring,
'Are either of you injured?'

'A few bruises, but we're alive,'
Kleist said sullenly. 'I was right about those Italian pilots. They're fucking
useless.'

'Things could have been a lot
worse, so be grateful. Get up front and give me a hand. The co-pilot's dead and
Falconi's trapped.'

They went up to the cockpit and
with Kleist's help Haider tried to prise Falconi's leg free of the mangled
pedal, but it was awkward in the confined space and both men could barely move.
Falconi's face was a film of sweat and he looked in terrible pain. 'It's no
use, Jack. You'll need a lever of some sort.'

'I'll see if I can find something
outside in the wreckage.'.

'We can't stay here all day,'
Kleist protested. 'Once the storm dies down, there could be a patrol along to
investigate.’

'We'll worry about that later.'
Haider turned to Falconi.

'Where the hell are we, Vito?'

'About six miles north of the drop
zone.'

'We'd never make the rendezvous on
time, that's for sure.

Trying to cross the desert in this
weather is only asking for trouble.'

'There's an Arab village maybe
eight miles west of here. I know the place from before the war. You could try
and make it on foot. After that, God knows. But you'd better leave me, Jack.

I'd only slow you down.'

Haider shook his head. 'We free
you first, then I'll decide.'

He turned to Kleist. 'Wait here.
I'm going outside.'

Haider went out into the cabin,
but Kleist followed him and grabbed his arm.

'Listen, Haider, the pilot's going
to slow us down once we try to move. His foot's broken by the looks of it, and
he's losing blood.'

'And what are you suggesting?'

'We leave him behind. He said so
himself. But better if we kill him. I told you, I don't trust those Italians.
He probably has it in mind to give us away if the Allies find him, and try to
save his own neck.' Kleist gestured a knife across his throat.

'I'll do it myself. Just say the
word.'

Haider pulled free. 'You're a
callous bastard, Kleist.'

'Our lives are threatened by
remaining here,' Kleist persisted.

'So the sooner we try to move, the
better. That fighter probably reported our incursion before it crashed. There
could be enemy aircraft waiting to search the area once the weather clears. If
they spot the wreckage, there're going to be patrols swarming all over this
place before you know it. And remember, we're enemy agents. The Allies shoot
the likes of us, or hadn't you heard?'

'You're still under my command,'
Haider replied curtly. 'I'll have no more talk about killing anyone. And no one
moves anywhere until I reckon our chances in the storm. Now wait here. That's
an order.'

Haider went back through the
cabin, past Rachel and Doring, forced open the fuselage door, covered his mouth
and nose with his arm and jumped down. The weather was ferocious outside, and
he found it difficult to move, but at least the wreckage offered some cover.
There was a smell of oil and kerosene in the air. The Dakota had tilted over on
one side. One half of the left wing had completely sheared off, and what
remained of it was twisted metal. He found a piece of torn-off ' slat, then
quickly made his way back into the cabin and shut the door against the wind.

Kleist waited, looking unhappy.
'Well, what's the verdict?'

'We wouldn't stand a chance trying
to move, not in these conditions. Better to wait until the storm dies down. Now
give me a hand and we'll try to free Falconi.'

It took them over half an hour,
and by then Falconi's foot was badly bruised and swollen. The bleeding hadn't
stopped, and when Haider helped him out of the seat, the Italian cried out,
agony on his sweat-battered face.

'For God's sake, easy, Jack!'

They carried him out into the
cabin and Haider tightened the belt on Falconi's leg and checked the injured
bone. 'Apart from a deep cut, it seems you've got a fracture or a break, I'm
not sure which.'

'Whatever it is, amico, it feels
sore as hell.'

The storm appeared to have died
down a little. Kleist went to the cabin door, peered out. He said to Haider,
'When are we going to move?'

'As soon as we can rig up some
kind of stretcher.' He pointed to the cargo webbing along the fuselage walls.
'See what you can do with that.'

'Get sense, Haider, for Christ's
sake! I told you, he's going to slow us down.'

'He's right, Jack,' Falconi
agreed. 'You'd stand a better chance without having to look after a cripple.'

Haider ignored him and said
sternly to Kleist, 'Obey the order.' He jerked a thumb at Doring. 'And
you," give him a hand.'

Kleist turned away in anger, and
he and Doring began to remove some of the webbing, ripping it from the walls.
Rachel found a dressing and a wooden splint in the first-aid kit and bandaged
Falconi's foot.

'Grazie, signorina.'

'Try not to move, otherwise you'll
end up making things worse.'

'Are you a nurse?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'No matter, you're an angel.'

'Don't you Italians ever stop
being charming?'

'It's in the blood, I'm afraid.'
Falconi managed a weak smile.

'We learn to seduce women from the
cradle.'

Rachel went over to Haider. 'What
now?'

'Vito reckons there's a village
about eight miles west of here.

How long it'll take us to get
there carrying him on a stretcher is anybody's guess. It would have made sense
to have tried the landing site first, just in case our contact decided to hang
around.

He might have been able to get us
medical help. But for that to work, we'd need transport, so we'll have to give
it a miss.'

'What if there are troops in the
village?'

'A distinct possibility, but we'll
just have to take the chance.'

'And if we're challenged or
questioned?'

'We stick to our cover stories.'

'Don't you think you're being
over-optimistic? For one, how do we explain crashing in the desert?'

Haider smiled. 'A good question,
and I'll try and think of something. Meantime, let's get Vito comfortable.'

Kleist and Doring came back with a
crude webbing stretcher that almost resembled a hammock. 'That's the best we
can do,'

Kleist said gruffly.

'We'll take turns carrying him.
What's the weather like?'

'Weakening.'

Haider said to Doring, 'There's a
stand-by magnetic compass in the cockpit. It may come in useful if it's still
working. See if you can remove it. If not, we'll have to use the sun as a
guide.'

Doring went into the cockpit, and
Haider beckoned Kleist to help him carry Falconi out through the fuselage door.
They placed the webbing on the sand and laid Falconi on top. The wind had died
down, the sun had risen, and the visibility had greatly improved. Haider moved
around the aircraft. Empty desert lay all around, but he thought he saw what
looked like a wadi, maybe a mile away, a few date palms silhouetted against the
dawn sky.

He went back. Doring appeared
carrying a small, bulbous compass. 'Well?'

'It looks like it's still working,
but it's difficult to be certain.'

'We'll have to take our chances.'
He told the others about the wadi. 'If we're in luck, there'll be water and we
can fill our canteens, then we head west. Everyone make sure they have their
belongings and let's move out.'

Haider and Kleist carried the
makeshift stretcher between them. It sagged without any wooden supports, and
Falconi had to keep his injured foot hanging over the side. It took them almost
an hour to reach the wadi. It was no more than a half dozen date palms, some
rough camel thorn bushes and a few clumps of scorched grass, but there was a
small freshwater pool that hadn't entirely dried up.

'You'd better fill your canteens
and rest for five minutes.'

They drank from the pool and
filled their canteens. The heat was already starting to increase. Haider wiped
his brow and checked his watch: almost 7.30. Falconi started to drift in and
out of consciousness. He didn't look too good.

Rachel felt his temperature. 'He's
cold.'

'It's the blood loss. Let's not
waste any more time.' Haider checked the compass for west, then said to the
others, 'On your feet.'

They'd hardly gone twenty paces
when Doring shouted, 'We've got company, Major!'

Haider noticed a vehicle in the
near-distance, kicking up a dust cloud in its wake, and his heart sank. They
laid Falconi down and watched a British Army Jeep race towards them, its
pendant flying, a couple of uniformed officers in front. One of them was
standing, holding on to the vehicle's windshield, his pistol drawn.

'Fucking brilliant,' said Kleist.
'Well, what now, Major? Any bright suggestions?'

Haider wiped sweat from his face.
'Just keep your heads.' He knelt beside Falconi. The Italian was conscious, but
only just. He patted his cheek. 'Vito, we've got a problem on its way - a
couple of British officers in a Jeep. Can you understand me?'

Falconi's eyes flickered, barely
focusing. 'Si.'

'Keep your eyes shut, act like
you're unconscious. Moan if you have to, but don't say a word.'

Falconi was bathed in a cold
sweat, his voice weak. 'That - that won't be difficult, amico.'

'The rest of you, leave the
talking to me.'