Authors: Glenn Meade
“The lady, too, Hugo. My apologies, madam.”
The lieutenant searched through Rachel's clothes and belongings. “They're all unarmed, sir, apart from the pilot. And their papers look in order, except the pilot doesn't seem to have any.”
“Show them here.”
“Can we at least put our hands down?” Halder asked.
“You may, but stay perfectly still.”
The lieutenant handed over the papers and the captain examined them. “So, you're an American, two South Africans, and the lady's a German Jew?”
“That's right,” Halder replied.
“Quite a mixed bag.” The captain looked over at Falconi, who appeared unconscious, and studied his American uniform. “What about your pilot? He had no papers.”
“They must be at the crash site. He's been badly injured. We had a first-aid kit on board and did what we could, but he's lost consciousness.” Halder sounded impatient. “Now, if you don't mind, we'd like some help getting him to a doctor.”
“Anyone else injured in the wreckage?”
“The copilot was killed. If you could justâ”
“Hold your horses, Professor, I'm not finished yet.” The captain continued to cover them with his revolver. “Where were you flying to?”
“Cairo, and on to Luxor.”
“Part of an archeological team, you say?”
“That's right.”
“Doing what?”
“Working on a dig in the Valley of the Kings.”
The captain frowned. “And what the devil were you doing in an aircraft southwest of Alex?”
Halder pretended frustration with the man's questioning. “If you must know, returning from Sicily. We hit bad weather and had engine trouble. The pilot crash-landed in the middle of a sandstorm.”
“And what exactly were you doing in Sicily?”
“We were asked to examine an archeological cache found by the American army. The Germans stole quite a number of artifacts in North Africa, and took some of them with them when they retreated. A very valuable cache it was, too. Roman, second century AD.”
The officer considered for a moment, then frowned in indecision. “Well, your papers seem in order. But I'll still have to check your story out with the proper authorities, back at base.”
“And where's that?”
“Amiriya, less than twenty miles away. When did you crash?”
“About an hour ago.”
“To tell you the truth, I saw the wreckage in my field glasses, before I noticed your little group. That's when we decided to veer off course a bit and have a look.” The captain glanced over at Falconi. “This chap does seem in a bad way. Did he manage to send a distress signal?”
“There wasn't time. I'll need to get in touch with Cairo and tell them what's happened.”
“We can do that at Amiriya, and we've got a doctor there who can attend to your pilot.” The captain removed his cap and wiped his brow. He put away his revolver, his suspicion obviously allayed, but he didn't return their papers. “I'd better hold on to these until we get things sorted out. You're most probably telling me the truth, but like I said, there's a war on, old boy. I'm sure you understand.” He called over the lieutenant. “Let's get these people on board, Hugo.”
“Right, sir.”
The lieutenant helped Kleist and Doring carry Falconi to the Jeep. He was still out of it, moaning as he was loaded on. Halder had a sudden and terrible fear that he was really unconscious and might utter something in Italian. The captain produced a cigarette case. “Smoke, Professor?”
“Thanks.”
“And you, miss?”
Rachel declined, and when the captain lit the cigarettes, he said to her, “Dashed bad luck, crashing like that, and especially about your copilot.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I studied classics at Cambridge, myself. Always had a keen interest in archeology. What's the dig you're working on in Luxor?”
“A tomb from the New Kingdom period.”
“It's been worked on throughout the war?”
“More or less. With a slight lull when Rommel threatened Cairo.” Rachel gave a weak smile. “No rest for us archeologists, I'm afraid.”
“It seems not.”
“We were lucky you came along when you did,” Halder interrupted. “Were you on patrol?”
“Good Lord, no. We were on our way back to base after a poker session with some army friends in Hammam, but got lost when the bloody storm blew up. Had to sit it out in the shelter of some rocks about five miles west of here. But we're all right now, we know our way home. Right, let's mount up and have a quick look at this aircraft of yours.”
“Captain, our pilot is badly injuredâ”
“I'm well aware of that, but while we're here I really had better check out your storyâit'll save a lot of time and trouble afterwards. Besides, it's on our way, and we'll be as quick as a breeze. It'll be a tight fit in the Jeep, but we should just about manage to squeeze all of you in.”
Before Halder could protest, the captain tossed away his cigarette and strode back to the vehicle. Halder lingered where he was, turned to Rachel, and gave a faint smile. “You did well. A slight nervousness in your voice to start with, but apart from that you were up there with Marlene Dietrich and the best of them.”
“What choice did I have?” she whispered back. “What happens now?”
“God knows, but we'll have to think of something. As soon as our two friends see the tracer holes in the Dakota, our cover's blown.”
The captain had already climbed into the back of the Jeep, Doring beside him with Falconi, Kleist up front with the driver, and there seemed barely enough room for all of them in the cramped vehicle. “Are you ready, Professor? Miss?” The captain called over.
Halder tossed away his cigarette, took Rachel's arm, walked across, and helped her into the back of the overcrowded Jeep. He climbed in beside her, the engine started up, and they drove away.
“You're sure it was a Dakota?”
Weaver nodded to Sanson. “That's what Alex Coastal Command said when I spoke with them on the telephone. The Beaufighter's pilot confirmed the sighting about ten minutes before he disappeared from radio contactâjust after 4:30 a.m. He asked the Alex tower to let him know if there was any known traffic in the area, but the reply was negative. They told him to bring the intruder back to the airfield. But neither aircraft showed up and the Beaufighter's radio was dead when the tower tried to call him up at four-forty. At first the tower wasn't unduly alarmedâthe storm was causing their communications to act upâbut after that they got suspicious.”
Sanson stared at the wall map. It seemed his mood hadn't improved since their talk in the restaurant, and there was a noticeable coolness in his tone. “Anything else, Weaver?”
“There've been no subsequent sightings of either aircraft in our airspace. Air Command pointed out that the Dakota's usually not armed, and the Beaufighter should have been able to take him back, no problem. They say it's possible both of them were forced to land somewhere because of the storm, or collided in midair.”
“Are they looking for wreckage?”
“They're sending up a couple of spotter planes to search the coastal area, and the desert south of it. And they're requesting any air traffic due to fly over the sector to keep their eyes open.”
Sanson reflected for a moment. “Those sandstorms can get pretty rough. They play bloody havoc with aircraft. There's probably a good chance they both could have got into trouble and crashed.”
Weaver joined Sanson at the map. “But it still doesn't tell us what the Dakota was doing where it shouldn't have been at that hour of the morning. I checked with RAF HQâthere's been no notification of any missing aircraft, British or American, in the last eight hours, from either Egypt, Sicily, or mainland Italy.”
“What about traffic coming east from Tunis or Algeria, or the chance that some unlucky pilot got blown off course?”
Weaver shook his head. “Apart from air patrols, Alex or Cairo hadn't any scheduled traffic for last night or early this morningâAmerican or Britishâmainly because of the expected bad weather.” He pointed to the map, at the desert areas south and west of Alex. “It occurred to me there are lots of remote, abandoned airfields up near the north coast that would probably be ideal for a covert drop. And it seemed kind of suspicious, the Dakota appearing and vanishing like thatâI thought we might look into it.”
Sanson turned back. “Contact Alex again. Ask them to double-check the traffic reports for last night and this morning, just to be certain none of our aircraft went missing, apart from the Beaufighter. See if they've got any information that we don't already have, and tell them to keep us posted if anything turns up. And if they spot any wreckage, tell them we want to see it. Get to it, Weaver.”
Halder tried to assess the situation as he sat in the back of the Jeep. As soon as the officers saw the tracer-damaged wreckage, the deception would be over. Up ahead, he could see the crash site looming closer. He glanced over at Doring. The SS man made a fleeting gesture across his throat and his eyes flicked towards the captain, suggesting the obvious. Halder didn't have a chance to indicate a reply, because at that moment Falconi moaned, and shuddered in pain.
Halder felt the Italian's brow. It was feverish, and he knew Falconi wasn't acting. He saw damp patches of blood on the bandages; the bleeding had started again. “Captain, we have to get this man to a doctor, urgently. God knows what internal injuries he might have.”
The captain leaned over and lifted one of Falconi's eyelids, then felt his pulse. “His heartbeat does seems a bit slow. It's probably delayed shock.”
“If he dies, I'll see you're held personally responsible.”
“Steady on, Professor. I've got a bloody job to do.”
“And this man's life is in danger.”
The captain chewed his lip in indecision. “There's a village about half an hour from here. It's closer than our base and I believe there's a local doctor.”
“Then I suggest you get us there as quickly as possible.”
“Of course. Just as soon as I examine the wreckage.”
Halder made to protest again, but the captain put up a hand to shield his eyes as he peered ahead at the mangled Dakota. “It looks like you had a bad time of it. You were bloody lucky to survive.”
The lieutenant pulled up a short distance from the wreckage, and the captain climbed down. “I won't be a moment. Keep the engine running, Hugo.”
“Yes, sir.”
Halder tensed as the captain moved towards the Dakota. The tracer holes weren't immediately noticeable in the tangle of metal, but when he had gone only a few steps, he turned round, ashen-faced. “This plane's been shot atâ”
He reached for his sidearm, but in the Jeep Kleist grabbed the lieutenant's revolver as Halder's arm went around the young man's neck and Kleist pointed the gun at his head.
“I really wouldn't, Captain,” Halder said. “Now toss that weapon in the sand, quick as you can.”
The Avro Lancaster was a robust British bomber, one of the most successful Allied aircraft of the war.
The one that Weaver and Sanson flew in that morning was a transporter, its mission ferrying an urgent cargo of artillery munitions to Italy, with a brief stopover in Alex. The aircraft had definitely seen better days. Part of the cabin skin had been shot through by flak and left unrepaired, the interior was freezing, and the noise from the four Merlin piston engines sounded like a million angry wasps gone mad.
Weaver tried to ignore the noise and discomfort as he and Sanson sat on a couple of munitions boxes up near the cockpit. They were twenty miles south of Alex, and at five thousand feet they could see the white clusters of flat, mud-brick buildings where the suburbs began. The Lancaster was buffeted violently by a heavy gust of wind, then settled.
“Couldn't you have found us an aircraft with a safer cargo?” Sanson asked.
“It was the only available flight to Alex this morningâwe were lucky to get a ride.”
“Let's just hope it's worth all the trouble, Weaver.”
They had hit the tail end of the bad weather during their climb out from Cairo, and there was rough turbulence. Sanson just sat there, stone-faced, but Weaver felt as if he wanted to throw up.
Half an hour after he had contacted Alex RAF HQ, they had called him back. A further check had revealed no air traffic missing in the Med or northern Egypt, nor had there been anything scheduled to fly at that hour of the morning, apart from the missing Beaufighter, and three coastal patrol Tomahawks which had returned safely to base. Something else had turned up. A low-flying Lysander en route from Mersa Matruh to Alex had reported the wreckage of two aircraft in the desert, approximately twenty miles southwest of the city, one of them still smoldering.
“Ten minutes to landing,” the pilot called over his shoulder, and looked back at Weaver, who was still white-faced. “What's the matter, sir? Don't you like flying?”
“I love it,” Weaver replied, as the aircraft bucked in another pocket of turbulence. “Especially in a plane that looks like a sieve, and is packed full of explosives. Definitely the only way to travel.”
The pilot laughed and turned back to set up his approach.
Halder waved the revolver and moved the two officers inside the Dakota. “Remove your uniforms, both of you.” He turned to Kleist and Doring. “When they're done, tie them securely to the fuselage. Use some of that cargo webbing.”
The officers undressed as they were told. The captain looked astounded, and fearful. “You're Germans, aren't you?” he said to Halder. “You mind telling me what's going on?”
“Questions, Captain, will get you nowhere. Be quiet, please.”