Glenn Meade (51 page)

Salter laughed, pulled hard. The
nail sheared from the finger.

The Arab stiffened, beads of sweat
suddenly rising on his face, its expression twisted in pain, but he didn't
scream.

'Changed your mind yet?'

Hassan gritted his teeth, blood
dripping from his injured finger, clenched his eyes shut against the agony.

'No? Then let's try another.' As
Salter moved to grip the next nail, there was a burst of machinegun fire from
somewhere outside. 'What the bloody hell-?' He jumped to his feet as one of his
men stormed into the room.

'We got trouble on the way, boss.
Lots of it.'

When Weaver arrived at the
Shabramant crossroads, the headlights caught the unmistakable lattice of tyre
tracks in the dust.

He was filled with dread, slammed
his fist into the dashboard with frustration. 'Damn! It looks like Sanson got
his reinforcements, and he's been and gone.'

'What now?'

'Put your foot down, hard as you
can.'

Sanson and his men had crawled
towards the sand-dunes opposite the gates, everything going smoothly until the
last few minutes before the assault. He could make out the sentry boxes in the
wash of silver moonlight, the outlines of a half dozen barrack huts, lights on
in several of the windows. But apart from the two guards, smoking and chatting
as they leaned against one of the boxes, he noticed no other activity in the
camp.

He gestured to the two scouts,
their faces still blackened, and they slipped forward on their bellies, vanishing
into the shadows like ghosts. They reappeared across the road minutes later and
quickly overpowered the two guards, but one of the sentries managed to let out
a muffled scream before a hand cut off his cry.

'Let's pray no one's heard the
damned noise,' Sanson fumed.

He turned to the major.

'Get those gates open and see if
you can find out from the sentries where Salter is, then bring me the
loudhailer.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sanson led the way towards the
gates, and when they were opened, he instructed the men to spread out and move
forward.

'Don't open fire unless I give the
order.'

They had hardly moved a dozen
paces "when the door of the nearest hut opened, fifty meters away, and a
couple of men stepped out cautiously, looking as if they'd decided to
investigate the disturbance.

'Get down!' Sanson ordered, and
everyone threw themselves to the ground, but it was too late. The two men wore
British Army uniforms and were armed with Sten guns, and when they saw the
intruders they opened up, firing wildly, before vanishing back inside the hut
and dousing the lights.

The major darted up beside Sanson,
dropped himself flat on the ground. 'Damned bad luck - we almost had them by
surprise.'

'Give me the loudhailer.' The
major handed it over, and Sanson shouted into the mouthpiece. 'This is
Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. We have the airfield
surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up.'

Glass shattered in one of the
windows, a Sten gun was poked through, and a chatter of fire whistled above
Sanson's head as he ducked for cover.

'If that's their answer, so be it.
Bring up the armoured car and troop-carrier. And get some men round the back of
the huts to cover the rear, just in case anyone's stupid enough to try and make
a break for it.'

The major spoke on the field
radio, and within a minute the armoured car had roared in through the gates,
followed by the troop-carrier. They drove forward and swung right, covering the
troops as they crouched behind the vehicles. Sanson tapped on the car's armour
plate with his revolver, a metal flap opened in the door, and the face of the
machinegunner appeared.

'Rake the huts with fire, one by
one,' Sanson ordered.

'We're going to flush them out.'

Salter had doused the office
lights the instant he'd heard the first rattle of gunfire. He fumbled his way
to the window, where one of his men was hunched down with a Sten gun. They
heard the metallic voice from the loudhailer, followed by a second burst of
fire. 'It's the army, boss. And it sounds like they mean business.'

An armoured car and a
troop-carrier with a heavy machine gun started to hammer one of the huts with a
deadly salvo of fire, and less than a hundred yards away Salter noticed shadowy
figures move in the darkness. He was confused, seething with anger. 'How the
fucking hell did they know we were here?'

'It beats me. But we're in the
shit, no two ways about it.'

A stray burst of fire shattered
the window, and the man went to raise the Sten gun in reply, but Salter stopped
him. 'Don't be bloody daft, you'll give our position away.' He turned to the
four of his men still in the hut. 'One of you stay here, the rest try and get
to the others, out the back way. Tell them we're breaking out, pronto. It's
everyone for himself.'

Three of the men moved towards the
rear of the hut, and Salter crouched with the remaining man beside the window,
saw more shadows, moving closer in the darkness. In the other buildings, the
rest of his gang were putting up stiff resistance by the sound of it, answering
the attack with chattering machine gun fire. 'How many do you reckon there
are?'

'Too many from the looks of it.
And it won't be long before they have us covered, every which way.'

Salter fumed in anger as one of
his trucks parked outside a neighbouring hut had its tyres shredded by
deliberate gunfire.

'The bastards are making sure we
can't escape. Well, we'll see about that. Get out to the nearest hangar at the
back. See if you can find us any kind of transport. I'll be right behind you,
soon as I take care of the wog.'

'Right, boss.' The man crawled
across the floor towards the rear corridor. Salter crouched over Hassan, still
tied to the chair, and pointed the tip of the Sten gun barrel in his face.
'Looks like it's just you and me, sweetheart. It's time to talk or die. Where's
Deacon and his friends? Tell me, and you live to fight another day. Don't, and
your head's going to look like a pulped melon.'

Another shower of stray fire
exploded into the room, breaking glass, rounds stitching the wall and riddling
the field radio's metal chassis. Salter wiped perspiration from his face,
tightened his finger on the trigger, pressed the barrel into the Arab's
forehead. 'I don't mean to rush you, matey, but if you don't answer soon you
mightn't have a bleeding choice. This is it. Last chance. Where are they?'

Sweat glistened on Hassan's face.
'On the Nile bank. A villa called Maison Fleuve.'

'Exactly where on the Nile bank?'

Hassan told him, and Salter
grinned in the shadows. 'You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?'

'It's the truth. Take me with you.
I show you.'

'Oh, don't you worry, mate, you
definitely will if we get out of this alive. Your friends have a few questions
to answer.' Salter loosened the ropes, pointed towards the corridor with the
gun, as more stray fire ripped into the hut, sending splinters of' wood flying.
'Outside, the back way. Fast. And keep your head down.'

Hassan struggled from the chair.
As he stumbled in the darkness, he knocked the table. Salter prodded him with
the machinegun. 'Move it! Or they'll be on top of us.' Hassan noticed his
knife, still planted in the desk. He stumbled again, deliberately this time,
grabbed the hilt, yanked it from the wood, and slipped the blade unseen into
his sleeve. 'I said move it!'

Salter roared.

At the back door of the hut,
Salter began to panic. The gunfire was getting closer. He saw his man hurry
towards them in a sweat, wheeling a battered-looking motorcycle, a
green-painted Moto Guzzi, the engine already running. 'What's that?'

'There was nothing in the hangar,
boss, except a couple of j push-bikes and this bloody ancient motorcycle.’

'I don't give a fuck how old it
is, is it working?'

'Seems to be, and there's fuel in
the tank.' He frowned at Hassan. 'We can't take the wog. There's only room for
two.'

'You're right.' Salter coldly
brought up the Sten and squeezed the trigger, sending the stunned man reeling
back, dancing in a chatter of fire.

'Get on the bike. You're driving.'
He pushed Hassan forward.

The Arab swung round, the blade in
his hand. Salter's eyes were beacons of horror as he tried desperately to raise
the Sten.

The knife slashed at his throat, a
deep gash opened in his neck and his head went back, spouting blood. Hassan
moved in for the kill, planted the blade deep in his chest.

Salter screamed, and as he
staggered back Hassan snarled, 'Go keep the Devil company, Englishman.'

Salter collapsed, his tunic
drenched in blood, and Hassan retrieved his knife, picked up the Sten, hung the
weapon by its sling from his shoulder. He climbed unsteadily on to the Moto
Guzzi, his jaw still on fire, just as a Jeep skidded around the corner, three
soldiers on board. He raised the Sten, let go with a long chattering burst, and
the vehicle reversed wildly.

Sanson led the men towards the
barrack office, taking cover behind the troop-carrier. It was the last building
to be stormed, the others had already been taken, Salter's gang putting up
heavy resistance until they realized that the odds were overwhelming.

A group of confused and shaken
Egyptian Air Force men had been led out from one of the huts, their hands tied
behind their backs, several injured from flying glass, but neither Haider nor
Salter was among the dead or captured, and with only one building remaining,
Sanson was getting anxious. 'Give them a warning to surrender.'

The major raised the loudhailer.
'Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air. Fail to obey
the order, and we open fire:

There was no reply, and Sanson
said, 'Give me a couple of grenades.'

The major handed over the grenades
and Sanson lobbed one through a shattered window, then another. Two flashes and
two explosions followed, then he ordered the machinegunner on top of the
carrier to rake the front of the building. The Bren gun stitched a hail of fire
across the veranda. Wood splinters erupted, the remaining windows shattered,
and the door was shot off its hinges.

When the firing died, Sanson moved
forward, his pistol at the ready. 'Right, let's see what we've got.'

Someone switched on the lights and
Sanson saw the bullet riddled field radio, and Doring's tortured corpse
sprawled in a corner. 'Fetch one of the prisoners. Find out what's been
happening here.'

When a burly-looking prisoner with
a broken nose was ushered in, his hands cuffed behind his back, Sanson went up
to him. 'Where's Salter?' he promptly demanded.

When the man hesitated, Sanson
struck him a blow on the jaw. He reeled back, and Sanson cocked his revolver, a
murderous look on his face. 'If I have to ask again, you'll be minus an eye.'

The man massaged his jaw. 'He - he
was in here last time I saw him, honest.'

Sanson pointed to the body. 'Who's
that?'

'One - one of Deacon's mates, a
Jerry name of Doring.

Reggie had words with him, and the
Arab-'

'You'd better tell me everything
that went on here. Fast. And I want to know exactly who was present when you
raided the airfield, descriptions included.'

Sanson listened as Salter's man
talked, then said urgently to a couple of the troops, 'See if you can find the
Arab and Salter, or if anyone's spotted them. They have to be still on the
airfield.

And be careful how you go, they're
both wily bastards, and dangerous.' He knelt over Doring's body. 'What did he
tell your boss?'» 'Nothing. Kept his mouth shut to the end, the poor sod.'

Sanson stood up briskly. 'One of
Deacon's friends you mentioned - the one dressed as an officer. I've reason to
believe he's a wanted German agent named Haider. I need to find him quickly.
Where is he?'

Salter's man looked totally
confused. 'Bloody hell! That's news to me. You mind me asking what the fuck's
going on?'

'Just answer the damned question.'

'He was "with us when we took
the airfield, but left with one of his men. Only the wog and Doring stayed
behind. Reggie said they'd be back before the aircraft landed.'

Sanson sighed bitterly with frustration,
examined the shattered radio. 'Did anyone contact Doring and his friends before
or after we arrived?'

'Not that I know of.'

'What time are the aircraft due to
land?'

'The boss wasn't sure exactly, not
until Deacon's mates returned.'

There was a noise behind him, as
one of the men Sanson had dispatched came into the room. 'The Arab's been
spotted, sir. It seems our lads drove round the back a few minutes ago and saw
him escape on a motorcycle. They went after him.'

'What about Salter?'

'I think we found him. He's in a
bad way.'

They carried Salter in and laid
him on the desk. His breath came in laboured gasps, his throat a crimson gash.

'We've got a medic coming. Try to
hold on,' Sanson told him, but knew it was useless. Salter was bleeding to
death from a horrible chest wound. Lying there on the desk, he looked like a
corpse already, chalk-white, his hands clutching his chest.

Sanson leaned over. 'Listen to me,
Salter. Deacon's friends, they're German infiltrators. I've got to find them.
Do you understand me?'

Salter coughed up blood, stared up
at the ceiling, eyes wide.