The Wilson Deception (22 page)

 

F
oster Dulles' car slammed to a stop a half mile from the airfield. The sound of gunfire had carried clearly. Driver and passenger fell into a heated conversation.

Joshua, following closely, pulled the Model T around next to Dulles. “What's going on?” he shouted.

“Who the devil are you?” Dulles answered, his voice tight with anxiety.

Fraser leaned forward and called over, “We've been working with your brother. Who's shooting?”

“I don't know. Probably Bolsheviks. Probably German ones.” Foster held up his empty hands. “We have no weapons.”

In a low voice, Fraser said to Joshua, “We don't, either.”

“My father does. He always does.” Joshua slammed the car into gear. “He just needs to show up.” Gunning the engine and turning on their headlights, he pulled in front of the other car and mashed the gas pedal down.

“What do we do when we get there?” Fraser shouted over the engine noise.

“Must be Allen Dulles up there.”

“Do we help him?”

About 500 yards from the airstrip, Fraser shouted, “Seems a dubious battle for us.”

“They all are.” Joshua's jaw was set.

“OK, but which side are we on?”

“The one that can keep me out of prison.”

All right, Fraser thought. We help Dulles. His heart was speeding like a freight train as he squinted into the wind that rushed through the side window. His mouth was dry. This seemed like a very bad idea.

As they neared the shed, more gunshots sounded. The windshield shattered. Joshua swerved to the right, stopping the car. He dove out through the passenger side, landing partly on top of Fraser, who had pursued a similar though less elegant plunge to the ground.

Using his elbows to pull and his feet to push, staying as flat as possible, Joshua crawled away. On patrol, you got good at moving like that or you got dead. When he was past range of the light, he rose to a half crouch and ran deeper into the night. Two more shots made Fraser flinch. He mashed his face into the dirt underneath him, wishing he could climb below it.

“
Raus, Raus.”
A harsh voice on his left.

Reluctantly lifting his head, Fraser saw a man aiming a pistol at him. He could barely make out the man holding it. He stood slowly, his hands raised in a submissive posture. He wouldn't give the man any reason to shoot him. No additional reason, anyway. Across the open space, one of the gunmen turned from the scene, jammed his pistol into his waistband, and trotted toward the parked planes.

Staying low, Joshua circled the milk wagon and moved toward the airfield. He had to get to the choke point, the place the other guys wanted to get to. It was easy to figure that out here. It was the planes. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He moved faster, still staying low.

He hadn't been on patrol for six months, but the feeling and memory came back right away. Focus. Open every sense. Control your breathing. Let the situation come to you. The other guy is scared too, maybe more scared than you. Think about nothing but what's in front of you, behind you, on either side. Stay low. Stay quiet. Trust nothing. Don't think, react. Be fast.

He veered right toward a low glint on the ground, near the first plane. He had to reach with his hand to be sure. A tool box. He felt for a likely weapon. His fingers closed around the handle of a wrench. It had a solid heft. He felt to be sure nothing was on top of it. No clanks against the tool box. He lifted it slowly.

It felt good to have something in his hand.

 

The man holding a gun on Fraser gestured for him to move around the car. Fraser walked to the front of it. The gunman wasn't large, but he seemed comfortable with the pistol. He had done this sort of thing before.

The man with the nearly shaved head—the one from the Crillon bar—stood at the end of the milk wagon. He was shouting into it. Allen Dulles emerged for a second time from between two large milk jugs. Though the nearly bald man wasn't armed, Dulles raised his hands in surrender. After Dulles jumped down, with the remaining gunman watching him, the man from the Crillon climbed up on the wagon, over the large jugs. He rapped on the floor a few times. He was looking for something. He found it at the front of the wagon. He lifted a burlap sack tied with a plain rope and peered inside. Then he cinched the rope and heaved the bag over the side.

“Herr Keller,” Dulles said. His voice was surprisingly relaxed. “I had hoped to meet you in quieter circumstances. We really should talk this over one more time. There may be a way that we can make this work out for both of us, for both our countries. That's always the best course, don't you think?”

Dulles' ease was impressive. Fraser wasn't sure he could speak at all—either form a sentence in his mind or make his voice work. His mind seemed to be vibrating. He should look for an opening to work with Dulles. That's what Dulles was doing, looking for an opening.

And Joshua. Where the hell was Joshua? And Speed?

The German shook his head. He allowed himself a smile. “No need for more talk. All is quite good.” He looked quickly at the airfield as a motor roared to life. “It is time to go. Karl,” he called to the man nearest Fraser, then pointed to the bag.

Karl tucked his weapon into his jacket pocket and hurried to the wagon. The bag was ungainly, apparently heavy. He used both arms to lift it, then staggered toward the airplane noise.

“Keller,” Dulles tried again, his tone still pleasant. “You're going to kill yourself trying to take off in the dark. You should wait a while.” His concern for Herr Keller's safety shone through his warm tone.

Keller smirked. “The sun, it rises now. Just as we planned. Most clever of us, no?”

The light was gaining against the night.

Fraser decided he had to do something. He stepped forward.

“Halt,” Keller ordered.

“I'm a doctor.” Fraser gestured toward the fat man on the ground, who was moaning, his hand squeezing his injured leg. “That man is hurt.”

Keller didn't answer because the airplane engine suddenly cut out. He called back over his shoulder. “Franz! Franz!” No answer came.

Fraser started toward the man on the ground.

 

Joshua could tell the pilot would be easy pickings. Once the airplane engine started, he knew where the man was—in the cockpit. Joshua stole up from behind, the man bent forward, awash in engine noise, listening to the engine, concentrating on whatever pilots thought about before takeoff.

Crouching, Joshua approached the plane from its dark side. In one motion, he stepped on a wing and grabbed the edge of the cockpit with his free hand. He swung the wrench with the other. The tool thudded into the base of the pilot's neck.

As the pilot slumped forward, his weight pushed the plane's throttle and revved the engine higher. Dropping the wrench, Joshua reached into the pilot's flight jacket. There it was. A Mauser. The long barrel snagged on the pilot's pocket lining, then came free. It felt even better in his hand than the wrench had.

A shape loomed over the opposite edge of the cockpit. Joshua swung the barrel up, ready to fire. The man, wearing a peaked pilot's cap, put an index finger to his lips.

Was he a friend?

Joshua made the visceral decision that this second pilot was on his side. The other man made no hostile move toward Joshua. Instead, he pointed to the back of the plane, then began wrestling the pilot's body away from the controls. Joshua understood. He dropped back to the ground as the engine cut out, then began to circle the plane's tail.

There he was, one of the men opposing Dulles. He was struggling to haul a heavy load to the airplane. More easy pickings. Joshua sprang from behind the tail of the plane and jammed the Mauser in the man's face.

Wide-eyed, the man dropped his load, a burlap sack.

Joshua took a gun from the man's waistband and pushed him to the ground. When the second pilot arrived from his work in the cockpit, Joshua gave him the second pistol. He held it against the head of the man on the ground as Joshua turned to the standoff in front of the shed.

 

S
peed was pushing the dinky motorcycle engine as hard as he could, but it still wheezed like a TB patient. This Triumph was built for midget limeys, not for full-grown men like him. Give him a good American Indian or Harley-Davidson. He could cover some ground on those.

The last thirty minutes had been a nightmare. He'd been watching the back of the Crillon when he heard Joshua and Fraser take off in the Model T. He hopped on the Triumph and hit the kick-start. Nothing. After a half-dozen tries, he dismounted. With fumbling fingers, he painstakingly went over the motorcycle's connections, its engine. Jesus, they were getting away from him. He would never catch them.

He couldn't find anything wrong. Desperate, he climbed back on the saddle and tried the kick-start again. The fool thing started.

Goddamn the English and their crappy machines. How could mechanically savvy people like the Germans lose a war to people who produced engines like this?

Joshua and Fraser, the Dulles boys, all were long gone. Cook had to guess where they went. He considered the list he and Fraser had made of possible ways to get money or people to Germany. There were four train stations on the northern and eastern sides of the city, plus the Le Bourget airfield. Cook set off for them, starting with the train stations. He hurtled past three stations—the Austerlitz, the Lyon, and the East depots. Not a whiff of a Dulles, or of Joshua and Fraser.

Cursing, Cook opened the throttle for the run to the Le Bourget. He had to get there now, right now. Just let them all be there.

A lumbering delivery truck pulled out in front of him. He hauled the handlebar left, nearly toppling over. The front wheel waggled while he strained to steady himself. The engine coughed. Then it came back. He straightened up and opened the throttle again.

When he neared the airfield, a parked car blocked the road. He slowed next to it.

Foster Dulles sat on the running board, a derby hat in his lap. “They have guns. There've been shots.”

Cook reflexively reached to his waistband and pulled out the pistol. “How many?”

“Close to a dozen.”

“Men?”

“No, shots.”

“How many men?”

“I don't know. You don't have another gun, do you?”

Cook thought about telling Dulles to call for help but didn't. He and Joshua were fugitives from the law. No police.

He took off, steering the bike with one hand. Keep it simple, he thought. He was a surprise. The bad guys, whoever they were, weren't expecting him. He'd make the noisiest, most god-awful entrance he could. One that would rattle the teeth of everyone there. Then he'd sort things out.

The first glimmerings of dawn spread before him, outlining two vehicles stopped near a shed. A lamp over the shed showed several figures. One stood next to a wagon bed, another was on it. He couldn't make out faces.

The figures in the clearing turned in his direction, reacting to the engine noise. He decided to jump off the bike and run it into the center of the scene.

As he tensed for the jump, a shot fired, then another. The second one burst the shed light, plunging everything into murk.

Cook leaned left. He meant to leap off the bike but it was more like a tumble. He kept his left leg out from under the bike as it skidded ahead, but his elbow jammed into the ground first. His shoulder shrieked with pain. The motorcycle engine revved higher as it careened into the clearing toward the wagon.

The horse screamed. Eyes wild, the animal reared in its traces as the machine skimmed toward it. Cook heard a violent collision, but couldn't see it. His eyes were squeezed shut. He rocked on the ground, grabbing his elbow and moaning involuntarily. The gun was gone from his hand.

“Don't anyone move.” It was Joshua's voice, strong and sure, coming from the direction of the airfield. “I've got the guns and the money, and I can see every last one of you.”

Cook couldn't make him out, the pain of his shoulder defeating any attempt to focus his eyes.

The figure on the wagon jumped down and another shot came.

“Hold on there.” It was Allen Dulles.

Cook ground his teeth, powerless to help, to do anything.

“Speed.” Hands were on his chest. Fraser's hands.

“It's my shoulder. On fire.”

“Lie back and breathe.”

With a short cry, he lay back, Fraser's hands guiding him. He couldn't believe the pain, then it backed off a bit. “What's happening?”

“Your boy's saving our bacon.”

Cook rolled to his side, meaning to stand. The effort made him dizzy. He rolled back with a gasp. His shoulder held hot lava.

Fraser, calm, spoke again. “For Christ's sake, stay put.” He pushed Cook's left arm, the bad one, flat against his torso, then bent it at the elbow. “Just think about how proud you are of that young man. He's smarter than both of us put together.”

“You're not helping,” Cook said through tightly clenched teeth. “My shoulder. Pain.”

“Damn, is that all the noise you can make? Shout at me!”

Cook roared, the sound reverberating into the sunrise.

Fraser rotated Cook's arm all the way out to the side. “Again. Another shout. Give it all you've got.”

Cook roared again as Fraser rotated his arm back all the way across his body. Cook gasped. He could swear he felt a clunk inside his shoulder. The pain evaporated. His body went limp. Sweat broke out on his face. He started panting. “Sweet Jesus,” he said.

Fraser smiled down at him. “Jesus had nothing to do with it.” He helped Cook up to a seated position. The scene before them was confusing.

Joshua held a gun on one gunman and the man with the clipped hair. Both raised their empty hands in submission. Allen Dulles was straining to lift the burlap bag from the ground. Another gunman lay on the ground, moaning. Fraser went to see what he could do for him.

“Where do you think you're taking that?” Joshua called out to Dulles.

Dulles looked over his shoulder. “Why, Germany, of course.” With a grunt, he got the bag up on his shoulder. “Hungry mouths to feed.” From the relaxed sound of Dulles' voice, it almost seemed like he was the one holding the gun.

“Why should I let you take that?”

“Don't be tiresome, sport, not after the fine work you've done.” Dulles grinned. “I can be grateful. You may have just purchased yourself a ticket home in the name of Joshua Cook.”

“Can I trust you?”

“What choice do you have?” Dulles started to walk to the plane.

Joshua pivoted slowly to follow him with the gun, then turned back to Keller and the gunman.

Fraser tore his eyes from the spectacle and checked the gunman on the ground. He was shot in the chest. He wasn't going anywhere. This was Fraser's first time providing medical care directly on a battleground. He could use some supplies.

Dulles was up on a wing of the plane with Heinzelmann's pilot, the one in the peaked hat who first ran off into the night. They hauled from the cockpit the pilot who had arrived with Keller. He moaned in pain and confusion.

Fraser heard an engine behind him. The Peugeot was stopping behind the Model T. Foster Dulles stepped out on the passenger side.

His brother shouted from the plane. “Excellent timing, Foster!” Allen's voice was jaunty now. He and the pilot were lifting the burlap bag into the cockpit. Then both men pulled on flight helmets and goggles. “Back in time for dinner,” he called with a wave.

The biplane trundled off over uneven ground, passing the shed to the field beyond.

“Here,” Fraser said to Foster and his driver, pointing to the men on the ground. “They need to go to the hospital, and you seem to have the best means of transport.”

They loaded three into the car, starting with Heinzelmann and the gunman with the chest wound, then adding Keller's pilot. Foster stood on the running board as the Peugeot turned in a wide arc and headed back down the road.

Fraser found Cook seated on the ground, leaning back against the shed and holding his injured arm. His son sat next to him. Four pistols lay on the ground before them. The wagon driver had come back from the field. He was talking softly to his trembling horse.

“We let the Germans go, the ones who could still walk,” Joshua said, looking up. “We don't need to talk to any more gendarmes.”

“Where'd they go?” Fraser asked.

“Out that way.” Joshua waved at the field before them. “Don't much care.”

Fraser turned to Cook. “We should probably rig up a sling for your arm, hold your shoulder stable.”

Cook nodded. “Just a damned invalid, getting in the way, being looked after by my betters.” He smiled and glanced over at Joshua.

“That,” Fraser nodded to the milk wagon, “may be our best way out of here. Let me have a word with the proprietor.” He walked off.

After a moment, Cook said to his son, “You shot that German.”

“Not my first.” Joshua looked out at the spreading rays of dawn. “Nearly bashed the other one's head in.”

Cook shook his head. “I'm sorry, son. I shouldn't have put it on you, the army and all. It wasn't my place.” His voice gave out and he shook his head.

Joshua looked over, then back to the horizon. “Don't take it on yourself, Daddy. I made up my own mind.” One corner of his mouth curled up. “I would've been drafted anyway.”

Cook drew a ragged breath. “Still, you could have gone into one of those support units, building roads or hauling stuff. Not the killing part.” He picked up a stone with his free hand and jiggled it in his hand. “That would've been the smart play.”

“The smart play? Nobody raised me to settle for the smart play.”

Cook nodded, jiggling the stone.

“I need to do some thinking,” Joshua started, then stopped.

Cook looked over.

“Some thinking about being home.”

They both looked again at the horizon, now beginning to glow.

“That's good,” his father said.