Glenn Meade (55 page)

In the Presidential Suite of the
Mena House, Agent Jim Griffith heard the telephone jangle like an alarm bell.

He jolted, came wide awake. He'd
been resting on one of the couches in the suite's reception room, and when he
reached for the phone he saw his shift leader, Howie Anderson, stretch his arms
as he lounged in the chair opposite. 'Jeez, ain't there no rest for the wicked?'

'Not if they happen to work for
the Secret Service.'
Griffith
smiled, and spoke into the receiver. 'Watch number one.

Griffith
.'

He listened, then said, 'Yes, sir,
got it,' and replaced the receiver, as
Anderson
yawned and looked at his wristwatch.

'What's up?'

'Two visitors on their way from
the lobby. Ambassador Kirk and General George Clayton. They want to see the
Chief 'At this hour?'
Anderson
rubbed his eyes, already knew that both men's names were on the special visitor
list, and that they would have been cleared by the outer perimeter, but he
checked the clipboard just the same. 'Must be darned important. You want to
wake him?'

'Sure.'
Griffith
was about to move towards the short
corridor that led to the President's bedroom when the knock came from the guard
outside.

'Seems like the Chiefs guests are
in one hell of a hurry,' remarked Anderson, and he picked up the Thompson
submachine-gun lying propped beside the door, readying the drum magazine in the
crook of his arm. 'They must have taken the stairs five at a time.'

Griffith
kept his hand on the butt of his
holstered Smith & Wesson.38, crossed the room, knocked back, and asked the
guard outside for the password. When he received it, he opened the door,
Anderson already a couple of steps behind, covering him with the Thompson.

Ambassador Alex Kirk and General
George Clayton stood impatiently in the corridor.
Griffith
scrutinized their security passes.
'The President,' said Kirk bluntly.

'He's still asleep, sir.'

'Then wake him. Quickly.'

Hassan came back, and they heard
the motorcycle start up outside. Kleist still had the M3 in his hands, a
gloating look on his face. 'So, you finally got to know the truth, Haider?

Though I'm hardly surprised you
turned out to be a cowardly traitor. Well, what have you got to say for
yourself?'

'Whatever it is, you'd never
listen, so go to hell.'

Kleist quickly crossed the room,
hatred burning like coal in his eyes, and grabbed Haider tightly by the hair.
'You and your Prussian kind make me sick. Arrogant, the lot of you. I asked you
a question.'

Haider ignored him, said to
Weaver, 'You're looking at the animal responsible for murdering those two
officers in cold blood at the crash site. As well as butchering a couple of
Egyptian policemen.'

The SS man grinned, stared into
his face. 'You haven't got the stomach for war, Haider. How they ever put a
coward like you in uniform is beyond me.'

'You always were a thoroughgoing
bastard, Kleist. I should have shot you when I had the chance.’

Kleist struck him savagely across
the face with the butt of the machine-pistol, and Haider reeled back, blood on
his lips.

'A little foretaste of what's to
come, the down payment on an old score.' Kleist's face split into a tight grin.
'And I must say, I'm going to enjoy settling the rest of it.'

Outside, they heard the motorcycle
rev up and drive away.

Kleist looked at Haider
maliciously. 'If you think I'm taking you back on the plane, you've got another
think coming. Even if those two manage to finish the business, something tells
me they'll never get out alive. Which means you're dead.'

His boot came up, lashed into
Haider's groin, and he crumpled to the floor. Weaver moved to help him up, but
Kleist shoved the machine-pistol in his face. 'Don't tempt me, American.
Besides, I believe someone else has a bone to pick.'

Hassan stepped forward. The curved
knife appeared in his hand, and there was a look of intense pleasure in his
eyes. 'The evil day has finally arrived. Get ready to say your prayers.'

Kleist put a hand on his arm. 'Not
here. I've something much more interesting in mind. Fetch the woman and get her
on to the boat, quickly.' He touched the barrel of the M3 to Haider's forehead,
smirked. 'We'll give the
Nile
crocodiles
something to chew over, and get rid of the major and his friends on the river.'

Neumann had made excellent time,
much better than he had anticipated, the strong south-easterly winds at their
backs all the way. They were at five thousand meters, and there was very little
cloud. The second Dakota had moved slightly ahead of them, taking the lead, and
they could make out its faint outline no wore than a mile away. In the darkened
cockpit, lit only by the dim glow of the instrument panel and the pale
moonlight, Skorzeny was getting impatient.

'How much longer?'

If the winds stay in our favour,
no more than fifteen minutes to the Egyptian coast. Less than an hour to our
target airfield - assuming, that is, we don't come across any enemy aircraft
that may have other ideas.' Neumann glanced round. 'This business of keeping
our altitude extremely low approaching
Cairo
,
it's going to be damned tricky, you know?'

Skorzeny put a hand on his
shoulder, grinned. 'Neumann, I have every faith in you.'

At that precise moment, they were
startled by a sudden blaze of tracer fire arcing through the night sky, its
target the Dakota ahead of them. From nowhere, two Tomahawk fighters with RAF
markings rocketed out of the darkness from the east, cannons blazing.

'Christ! muttered Neumann. 'We've
got company.'

Instinctively, he pulled up
sharply, and the Dakota in front tried to do the same, as one of the Tomahawks
attacked its port side with withering cannon fire. The Dakota took a hit, the
port wing almost disintegrating in the hail of lead, and the aircraft exploded
like a massive firework, its flaming debris plunging towards the sea.

'Oh my God. The poor bastards!'

'For Christ's sake, Neumann, get
us out of here,' Skorzeny roared above the engine noise.

'It's pointless,' Neumann answered
frantically. 'The Tomahawks have us for speed.'

'Do something, man!' Skorzeny
screamed.

Neumann pushed the column hard
forward, and the Dakota nosed down sharply, speeding towards the sea below at a
frightening rate of knots. Sweat on his face, Neumann said, 'Better hold tight,
Colonel. We're in for a rough ride.'

The suite had a small lounge area
for guests, complete with a couple of leather couches and a coffee table, the
white-painted walls adorned with Arab prints and wood carvings. As the
ambassador and the general waited anxiously,
Griffith
wheeled in
Roosevelt
. He wore a dressing gown,
his silver hair was tousled, and he looked the worse for having been woken. But
there was no sign of bad temper, just a wry smile. 'I'm hoping you gentlemen
have a good reason for this. You know how an old man like me needs his sleep.'

'We have, sir,' Kirk answered, and
told him the news.

'So,'
Roosevelt
said flatly, no triumph in his voice. 'It's over.

Berlin
tried and failed.'

'I'm afraid it's not completely
over yet, Mr President,'

Clayton explained. 'Three of the
Germans escaped and they're on the run. But they haven't a chance in hell of
getting anywhere near the hotel. Not that it's likely they'll try and continue
with their mission with a posse after them, every barracks alerted, and a ring
of steel around the compound, but we're doubling the patrols to make absolutely
certain.'

'That's reassuring to hear,
General. I guess if over a thousand troops can't protect me, no one can.'

'There's really no threat, sir. We've
put every available fighter aircraft we've got in
North
Africa
on alert, and air patrols are scouring the skies as we
speak. The extra measures are purely a precaution. I'm pretty confident we'll
have those Krauts rounded up pretty soon.'

'But no doubt there were
casualties?'

'Half a dozen troops wounded, and
six dead, so far as we know. Two of our own men, and four others. It could have
been a lot worse.'

Roosevelt
sighed heavily. 'The sooner this damned war is over, the better.' He glanced at
his watch. 'I guess there's nothing more to be said. Except I owe you and your
men a debt of gratitude, General.'

Clayton saluted. 'I can assure you
you're in safe hands, Mr President.'

'Of that, I've no doubt. And now,
I'd better let you both get back to whatever it is you have to do. Gentlemen,
I'll bid you good morning.’

In the Dakota, the tension was
frightening. Neumann kept the column pushed hard forward as they continued
their rapid descent. He hadn't the faintest belief that he could shake off the
high-speed Tomahawks, and knew with certainty that it was all over, nothing but
primitive animal instinct keeping him in there, fighting against the odds.

Although he couldn't see the
Tomahawks behind him, their tracer fire streaked past on the left and right as
the attacking aircraft followed him down all the way, the Dakota jolting
fiercely with the mounting speed, the vibrations unbearable, the engines
screaming in protest.

Neumann shot a glance at his
altimeter; the hands were spinning down fast, the Dakota plunging headlong
towards the sea, and he could barely read the instrument with the vibration.

A thousand meters.

'We'd better pull up soon, sir!'
the co-pilot shouted anxiously.

'We won't be able to break out of
our dive!'

'Wait!' screamed Neumann.

Eight hundred.

Five hundred.

'Sir! We'll never make it!'

The Tomahawks were still on his
tail, tracers hurtling past, raking into the sea directly ahead of him. Neumann
chose his moment and pulled back hard on the column and the Dakota lifted,
sluggishly at first, then swooping up, just barely clearing the water. He was
hoping that one or both Tomahawks, faster machines, wouldn't be able to pull up
in time and would crash into the sea, but he was out of luck, because within
seconds of
levelling
out the tracers started
hammering at him again. Tm afraid that's it,' he said to Skorzeny in defeat.
'We're finished.'

'More enemy aircraft, sir! Dead
ahead!' the co-pilot interrupted.

Neumann felt his stomach sink.
Sure enough, the dark figures of three aircraft were hurtling towards them,
coming in low over the sea. Their cannons erupted, spewing flame, and Neumann
instinctively moved to shield his face.

'They're ours!' the co-pilot
screamed with joy. '109s!'

Neumann looked again. They were
Messerschmitt 109s all right, and they weren't firing at him, but at the
Tomahawks.

The 109s shot past, one above him,
and one each to port and starboard. They'd make short work of the Tomahawks, of
that Neumann was certain. 'Thank Christ for that,' he breathed. 'It was a close
thing - I'm still bloody shaking.'

Before he could even bank to
glimpse the dogfight, another two 109s appeared either side of him. He glimpsed
the pilot on his port side giving him a series of hand signals.

'What does he want?' Skorzeny
asked.

'To talk on the radio.' Neumann
tuned in, found the frequency, listened, then said to Skorzeny, 'The mission's
aborted. We're to follow him back to
Crete
.'

'What?'

'Orders from
Berlin
. And I have no objection to that.'

'Let me talk to him.'

Neumann handed Skorzeny the headphones
and neck microphone.

The colonel slipped them on, made
contact with the 109 pilot, and barked, 'Repeat your orders.'

He listened, his face twisting
with disgust, then tore off the headset and mike and tossed them back at
Neumann. 'Damn it. Damn it to hell!'

Neumann glanced back. 'You don't
look too happy to be alive, Colonel.'

'You don't understand. It's a
catastrophe.'

'True. Our men in the other
aircraft-'

'I didn't mean that.' Skorzeny was
utterly depressed. 'I meant the damned mission. Aborting could lose us the
war.'

'It's that bad?'

'You've absolutely no idea,
Neumann.'

Ali liked being a policeman. The
pay was miserly but the work had advantages. Not least of all a good dinner at
the station house each day, a free uniform, and the envious respect of his
friends. Best of all was the opportunity to make a little baksheesh.