Glenn Meade (49 page)

'Give it ten minutes for good
measure, then you know what to do.'

The unmarked Ford sedan pulled
into the lane. Weaver sat in the passenger seat beside the military driver,
Reed in the back of Sergeant Morris, all of them wearing civilian clothes.

'It's a good job you're prepared
for trouble,' Reed said Drosely. 'Because if Salter's in there, there'll be
shooting and dies, no two ways about it.'

Weaver looked towards the
warehouse at the end of the le. There was a heavy metal door with a grille and
shutter set the middle, a light on above the wall on the left.

'You're sure you can't get us in
peacefully?'

Reed shook his head. 'Not a
chance. The guards have orders let no one past without Salter knowing about it.
If anyone tries, they get blasted.'

Weaver knew that if things went
horribly wrong he'd be court-martialed, no question, but he'd already passed
the barrier of caring out his fate. The field radio crackled on the back seat
and Morris spoke into the handset, then said to Weaver, 'We've got the back covered,
sir. The men are ready to go as soon as they get the word.'

Twenty heavily armed military
police were hidden inside the livery truck that had pulled up behind them, and
combined with the two dozen ready to assault the rear, Weaver reckoned that it
ought to be enough to deal with Salter's gang. 'What about the ambulances and
medics?'

'Two streets away, so as not to
attract attention. They'll come if we call them on the wireless.'

'Let's hope they're not needed.'
Weaver looked at his watch anxiously. 'OK, it's time. Give the word to the men.'

Morris got on the radio, gave the
command, then reported back to Weaver, 'We're all set, sir.'

'Come with me, Sergeant. Let's get
it over with.' Weaver picked up a heavy khaki satchel from the floor of the
car, and Morris put a hand lightly on his arm, nodded at the satchel, and said,
'You're sure about this, sir?'

'Can you think of any other way?'

Weaver got out of the car and went
down the lane with Morris. When they reached the warehouse, he took three
grenades from the satchel, placed them at the base of the metal door, then
removed a Very flare pistol from the bag.

'Get back,' he told Morris.

Weaver quickly pulled each of the
grenade pins in turn and ran back down the lane after the sergeant. As they
pressed themselves against the wall, there was a tremendous explosion, and the
grenades erupted almost together. A dirty cloudburst of dust and metal
splinters blew across the alleyway, echoed like a roll of thunder, and the door
was blown off its hinges.

Before the dust had even settled,
Weaver raised the Very gun and squeezed the trigger. A red flare exploded into
the air, turning the night sky blood red, the signal to alert the men covering
the rear. Already the troops were piling out of the delivery truck, weapons at
the ready, as Weaver and Morris moved towards the shattered door frame.

Doring and Hassan had finished
setting up the radio on the desk when Salter strolled over. 'That captain
friend of yours seems an able enough sort.’

Doring nodded agreeably. 'Yes, he
is.'

'Care to tell me about his
background and which unit he's from?'

Doring fell silent, and Hassan's
eyes narrowed suspiciously.

'Why don't you ask him yourself?'

'I wasn't talking to you.' Salter
glared, held the Arab's stare, then turned back to Doring. 'Well, sonny? And
for starters you can give me his name. And yours.'

A half-dozen of Salter's men
gathered ominously around them from all corners of the room. Hassan made to
reach for his knife, but one of them was behind him instantly with a gun. 'Try
it and you'll get blasted,' Salter warned. 'Now put those paws in the air where
I can see them.'

Hassan reluctantly obeyed, and
Salter came over, found the knife and took it from him, sneering. 'I warned you
about this before, didn't I?'

Suddenly the blade flashed in
Salter's hand, and a deep gash opened on Hassan's jaw. Enraged, the Arab
started to lunge at Salter, but the man behind him slammed the butt of his gun
hard into his skull, and Hassan jerked and slumped to the floor.

As he lay there, unconscious, Salter
put the toe of his boot to the Arab's head, tilted it over. 'You ought to heed
a warning when it's given.' He stuck the knife into the top of the wooden desk,
left it there, and walked casually over to Doring. 'Well, sonny, I'm waiting.'

Doring panicked, overcome by a
sudden feeling of doom.

In an instant he punched Salter in
the face and made a desperate grab for a Sten gun behind the desk. He just
managed to get his hand on the barrel when a rifle butt came crashing down on
his fingers. He screamed, fists began to rain, and before he knew it he was
being dragged across the room to one of the chairs.

Salter staggered over, wiping
blood from his nose. He grabbed Doring savagely by the hair. 'That was a
fucking stupid thing to do, sonny. Very fucking stupid indeed.'

Doring struggled as he was held
down, features contorted in agony, his fingers a pulped mess, and Salter
punched him hard in the face. There was a sickening crack, of bone splintering.

Doring screamed and almost passed
out as a fountain of blood spurted from his shattered nose.

'Eye for an eye, I always say. And
that's just to get acquainted.'

Across the room, one of Salter's
men felt Hassan's neck. 'He's still out of it, boss.'

'Put him in one of the rooms until
he comes round. We might need him later.' He turned back to Doring, leaned in
close, cold, evil eyes staring hard. 'Now, sonny, how about you telling me who
your friends are, and what exactly they've got planned after these aircraft
land?'

Weaver could barely contain his
frustration. He was in a room on the first floor which obviously served as an
office of some sort. They had stormed through the warehouse and found only
three of Salter's men, who didn't have a chance of putting up much resistance.
'Where are the prisoners?'

'The men are bringing them up now,
sir,' Sergeant Morris 1 answered.

'Have Reed brought up from the
car.'

There was a clatter of feet on the
stairs and three of Salter's men were led in, one of them swarthy, with a black
moustache.

When Reed appeared in the doorway
moments later, Weaver said, 'Do you recognize any of these people?'

Reed pointed to the man with the
moustache. 'That - that one's Costas Demiris.' 4 The Greek clenched his teeth,
livid with anger, and struggled to get free. 'You fucking Judas, Reed - when
Reggie gets his hands on you, you're dead!'

As Demiris was held back, Weaver
said, 'Bring him over here and take the others downstairs. Reed, get back down
to the car.'

A grateful Reed left, and Demiris
was led over to a chair.

Weaver said, 'Where's Salter?'

'That's for me to know and you to
find out,' Demiris said defiantly, a slight grin playing on his face. 'If you
think you'll get me to squeal, you've got another think coming. Besides,
Reggie's got friends in the right places. He'll soon sort this out. A case of
wrongful arrest.'

'You're a wanted criminal and
deserter, Demiris. Unless you talk, I'll see to it personally that they toss
you into a dark cell and throw away the key.'

'Yeah? Want to bet?' Demiris sat
there smugly, and Weaver could contain his frustration no longer. He was across
the room in an instant and grasped the Greek by the hair, wrenched back his
head. Demiris screamed.

'What happened to the trucks you
got from Reed-?'

There was a sudden screech of
tyres in the lane below, and seconds later footsteps clattered up the stairs.
Weaver said, 'Find out what's going on.'

Before the sergeant had reached
the door, Sanson burst in, crimson with rage as he stared at the scene then
glared at Weaver. 'What in damnation's going on here-?'

'You blatantly disobeyed orders,
Weaver.' Sanson stood there, his face still livid.

Weaver made to speak again, but
Sanson cut him off. 'We'll discuss this later. I've just spent two wasted hours
of interrogation in Alex and I haven't got the patience.' He shot a look at the
Greek. 'So, this is one of Salter's scum?'

'His name's Costas Demiris.'

'Has he talked?'

'I guess he's not in a very
co-operative mood right now.'

'We'll soon see about that.'
Sanson strode over to the Greek, who had witnessed his entrance with
indifference. 'I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. Where's
Salter?'

Demiris spat on the floor. 'Go
fuck yourself Sanson flushed a furious red. 'Leave us, Sergeant.'

'Sir?'

'You heard me! Get out! And don't
come in again until I call you.'

The sergeant left, closing the
door after him. Sanson calmly took out his Smith & Wesson revolver, broke
the barrel to make sure the chambers were loaded, then snapped the weapon shut
again.

As Weaver stood watching, he calmly
walked over to the Greek. 'I want you to listen, and listen very carefully,
Demiris.

For two reasons. First, I don't
have the time or the patience for wrong answers, and second, if you don't heed
my advice, it's likely you'll spend the rest of your days in a wheelchair.'

Demiris tensed, just slightly.

'In plain English, if you don't
give me the right answers to my questions, I'm going to shoot your kneecaps
off. And if you still haven't talked by then, I'm going to aim a little higher,
up towards that Greek manhood of yours. Now, are you going to tell me where
Salter is? And where those vehicles are?'

Demiris gave a dry, nervous laugh.
'You wouldn't shoot a prisoner, Sanson. You wouldn't dare.'

Sanson shot him in the left
kneecap. As the weapon exploded, Demiris screamed in agony, rolling on to the
floor and clutching the shattered bone. The door burst in as the sergeant came
to investigate, and Sanson roared, 'I said stay outside!'

The door closed abruptly. Demiris
lay there, writhing, blood pumping from his wound, tears of pain streaming down
his shocked face. 'You mad bastard. You fucking mad bastard!'

Sanson calmly aimed the pistol at
the other kneecap. 'You don't know the half of it. So start talking, Demiris,
and quickly.'

Weaver stood aside as a white-faced
Demiris was carried downstairs on a stretcher by a couple of medics, still
clutching his wounded knee and moaning in agony. He turned back to Sanson. 'You
don't think he was lying?'

'Hardly. It all makes perfect
sense.' Sanson stood there, his mind ticking over furiously.

'This captain fellow sounds like
Haider. As for Deacon and his Arab friend, I think we've found Haider's
contacts. From the description Demiris gave us, the Arab has got to be the wily
bastard we've been looking for. The rest I'm sure we can guess.

A poorly guarded airfield, no more
than half an hour from
Giza
?.
j

It sounds ideal for a covert
landing, the right sort of place from which to mount an attack. As for the
business of the valuable cargo, it's obviously some sort of ruse to fool
Salter.'

Sanson snapped his fingers at
Morris. 'Get on the radio and muster as many men as you can. Have them join us
at the Shabramant crossroads, a mile from the airfield. And I want a raiding
party sent to Deacon's nightclub. Tell them to nab him if he's there and report
to me on the radio.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'm coming with you,' Weaver said
defiantly.

Sanson glared back. 'No, Weaver,
you're not. And if you think you're going to worm your way out of this, think
again.

I'm going to finish this once and
for all, and you're not in the picture. Sergeant, remove this officer's sidearm
and take him into custody. He's under arrest, for disobeying orders.'

When Haider pulled up outside the
villa with Kleist, Deacon came out to meet them, looking anxious. 'Well, what's
the story?'

Haider told him the news. The
excitement and relief were evident on Deacon's face.

'Excellent. If everything goes
according to plan, there'll be an Iron Cross in this for all of us, presented
by the Fiihrer himself 'Let's forget about the medals for now, Deacon. You have
a signal to send.'

'What about Salter?'

'He's expecting me back within a
couple of hours.'

'You're certain he didn't suspect
anything?'

'Not so far as I could tell. Now,
the radio, if you please.'

He quickly followed Deacon down to
the cellar, Kleist behind them. Deacon opened the cabinet and turned on the
radio. While he waited for the set to warm up, he removed the Luger pistol,
checked the action, and stuffed it in his pocket, before smiling up at them.
'No sense in leaving a perfectly good weapon behind when it comes time to
leave. I'll keep it as a memento.’

Haider wrote out the message, and
when the valves had warmed, Deacon slipped on the earphones and went to work on
the Morse key. Ten minutes later he was jotting down the received code on a
slip of paper. He took off the earphones and looked up.

'It's done.'

'What's the reply?'

Deacon decoded, grinned up at
Haider, and handed him the paper.

The communications room in the
basement of SS headquarters was a large affair, several dozen high-powered
radio transmitter-receiver sets neatly arranged around the lime-coloured walls,
each set manned by highly trained SD operators, day and night, who twiddled
with dials and tapped on Morse keys as they dealt with the thousands of signals
that flowed through the airwaves from SD Ausland agents all over the world,
from such far-flung cities as Rio and Tokyo, Washington and Lisbon.

That night, a uniformed operator
sat in a private communications booth, which was set apart from the main room,
in a small office across the hall. His work area was illuminated by a pool of
light from an electric study lamp, and he was listening intently on his
earphones and jotting on a notepad with his pencil. When he had decoded, he
handed the slip to Schellenberg, anxiously standing behind him and drawing
fiercely on a cigarette, the duty officer by his side.

'You wish to send a specific
reply, Herr General?' the operator asked.

Schellenberg read the signal
almost in a trance, totally overcome with jubilation. For a moment he could
hardly breathe, his pulse rapid with excitement, glittering beads of sweat
rising on his temples, until he snapped out of his trance and crushed his
cigarette out in a metal ashtray by the console. 'Yes - yes, of course. As
follows: "Message received. Colonel departing
Rome
by midnight.
Berlin
sends best wishes for success."
'

As the operator tapped out the
reply and waited for the acknowledged signal, an elated Schellenberg turned to
the duty officer. 'Get me a line to the Chancellery. I want to speak personally
to the Fiihrer. Then have a car ready to take me there.' From his pocket he
took a slip of paper he had prepared.

'And this goes to Colonel Skorzeny
in
Rome
by
radio, immediately. The slightest delay and someone will face a firing squad.'

The officer grasped the page and
clicked his heels, already turning away. '
Zu
Befehl,
Herr General!'

At Practica di Mare, the aerodrome
was shrouded in dense fog, great wreaths of it smothering every corner of the
airfield, the hangars blanketed in a grey haze as thick and heavy as smoke. It
had crept in from the sea barely an hour before, and now Skorzeny was prowling
the tarmac area outside the hangar like an enraged bear, Captain Neumann by his
side. They could barely see each other in the thick fog. 'Mein Gott, it's
unbelievable,' muttered Skorzeny, seething with frustration.

'It's even worse than I thought,'
admitted Neumann. 'Down to near zero. In my opinion, it would be sheer madness
to take off in conditions like this.'

'If I want your opinion, Neumann,
I'll ask for it.'

'Colonel Skorzeny, are you
there?'' Suddenly an SS major came out of the fog, waving a lighted electric
torch, breathless as he almost bumped into them. 'An urgent message for you,
Colonel.

Just received by radio from
Berlin
.'

Skorzeny tore open the flimsy, his
huge hands ripping the paper. He read the signal by the light of the torch, let
out a breath with obvious relief, and said to Neumann with a broad smile, 'This
is it. We go immediately.' He turned to the SS major. 'Assuming we get airborne
safely - the very moment we do - send a reply to
Berlin
. "The colonel's on his
way." Simply that.'

The major stared at him as if he
were mad even to consider flying in such atrocious weather, but then quickly
saluted. 'As you wish, Colonel.'

When the man had disappeared back
into the fog, Skorzeny was already moving back towards the hangar. 'Well, what
are you waiting for, Neumann? I want your crews ready to go within five
minutes.'

'But we couldn't even taxi to the
runway in these conditions without risk of getting lost. And even the runway
lighting would be useless, the fog's so thick. My crews agree you're putting
everyone's life in danger-'

Skorzeny stopped, turned back, put
his hands on his hips.

'To hell with the damned weather.
You have your orders. I'll have us guided out with torches when we taxi, and
give instructions for the runway lighting to be put on full power, which might
help to keep us straight and narrow on take-off. Do it, Neumann, and make sure
you have a quick check on the latest weather forecast for en route.'

'With respect, what if we have to
land again because of engine failure or-'

Skorzeny drew his pistol and cocked
it, his expression almost savage. 'Question my orders again and I'll put a
bullet in you.

Now, you have a simple choice -
you and your flight crews.

You fly or you die. So I take it
you'll be a sensible man and instruct them we're taking off.'

At the airfield, Doring had fared
little better than Costas Demiris.

His face was a bloodied mess and
he groaned, slumped in the chair. He was barely conscious as Salter grabbed him
by the roots of his hair. 'Wake up, you hear me?'

Doring moaned in reply, and his
head rolled to one side.

Salter let go of him, gritted his
teeth and crossed to the window, his mouth twisted with frustration. One of his
men said, 'You want me to have a go at him, boss?'

'Don't be an idiot. Another
beating like the last and we'll have to bury him. We want the whole
consignment, not bloody ten per cent, so I need to know exactly what his mates
are up to before they get back.'

'Not much chance of that if he
won't talk.'

'Douse him with a bucket of water.
Then find some rope and fetch a pair of pliers from one of the toolkits in the
trucks.'

'What have you got in mind?'

There was a dark look in Salter's
eyes. 'A nail job. If it works for the Gestapo, it can work for us. I'll make
the bastard talk if I have to pull them out one by one.'

Behind them, Doring stirred in
agony, muttered something, and his head slumped into his chest. One of the men
standing over him frowned, a look of puzzlement on his face. Salter saw the
reaction. 'Well, what the fuck did he say?'

The confused man scratched his
head. 'It sounded to me like something in German, boss.'

Haider went upstairs and found
Rachel sitting on the bed, an oil lamp flickering on the table beside her,
shadows playing around the room. She rushed over and put her arms around his
neck, kissed him fiercely on the lips, and when she finally broke away, Haider
smiled and put the M3 down beside the bed. 'A man could very easily get
addicted to that kind of thing.' He saw the concern in her eyes.

'I'm just glad you're back safely.
Is everything all right?'

'It seems so, at least for now.'
He sighed, rubbed his eyes, then collapsed on to the bed, the strain and
tiredness of the last few days suddenly showing on his face. He lay there in
the dim light, his mind and body aching from exhaustion, and Rachel went to lie
beside him and put her head on his chest, her fingers gently stroking his face.
'Do you have to leave again?’

'In an hour, I'm afraid.'

'And after that?'

'A little before dawn, and it
should all be over. Then with luck, and if Schellenberg keeps to his promise,
we'll be flying out of here, back to
Germany
and freedom.' Haider tilted
her face towards him, looked into her eyes, emotion in his voice. 'If we make
it out of this alive, and if you think you could forget about Harry and give
this a chance, I 'want us to be together, Rachel.

Start a new life. Somewhere where
there's no war. I'm tired of all this killing and death, my love.'

'You're sure that's what you
¦want?'

'I've never been so sure about
anything in my life.'

He saw the wetness in her eyes,
and she moved in close. He found her mouth, kissed her hungrily, held her until
he finally felt overcome by an excruciating tiredness.

'My poor Jack, you're completely
worn out. You really should try and sleep, at least for an hour. I'll wake you
when it's time to go.'

He was about to protest, but she
blew out the lamp. He shut his eyes, and in a few moments he was resting
peacefully in the darkness, her hand still gently stroking his face, until a
little later he was faintly aware of her moving off the bed, the soft click of
the door closing, and he gave in to his exhaustion and drifted into a deep
sleep.

Skorzeny had ordered his NCOs to
assemble the men. The hangar doors had already been rolled open and the flight
crews had started engines and taxied the Dakotas out on to the apron, the
ground crews ready and waiting with powerful electric torches to guide them
through the fog on their short journey to the runway…-.

As the paratroops snapped to
attention, Skorzeny strode down their ranks, his baton under his arm, making a
quick inspection of their American uniforms as he addressed them above the din
of the
Dakotas
' idling engines. 'Well, the
moment has come. And a glorious moment it is. You've had your briefings so you
all know the mission you are about to undertake is absolutely vital to the
Reich. As you can see, the weather's not exactly to our liking for take-off,
but I have every faith in our Luftwaffe crews. Remember, do your duty to your
utmost. It's not only me depending on you, but the Fiihrer himself. Good luck.'

The NCOs marched the men smartly
outside the hangar, and they began filing on board the two
Dakotas
,
just as Neumann appeared, looking the worse for Skorzeny's threat, his co-pilot
having taxied their aircraft out of the hangar.

'Well?' Skorzeny demanded. 'What
about conditions en route? 'Nothing really unpleasant, so far as our Met people
can tell, but they predict strong south-easterly winds from northern Sicily down
to the African coast, at altitudes of up to six thousand meters. That's as far
and high as the present forecasts go'

Skorzeny was pleased. 'It's
enough. It means the wind will be at our backs most of the way, so we could end
up making excellent time, and getting to our destination quicker than we
thought. That's what I like to hear, Neumann. You'd better take command of your
aircraft. We're ready to go.' He slapped a powerful hand on the captain's
shoulder. 'And cheer up, man. It could be worse.'

Neumann wasn't convinced. 'Not
much. The fog aside, and from the little I know after our mission briefings,
this whole business is going to be damned dangerous.'

Skorzeny gave an almost manic
grin. 'You're right. In fact, I think I can promise you a very interesting
night's work. Now, let's get on board.'

The colonel raced up the steps to
board the first Dakota, and Neumann followed, checking that the door was
properly closed after the steps had been pulled away. He moved past Skorzeny
and his men into the cockpit, and took his seat beside the copilot, noticing
glinting beads of sweat on the man's forehead.

Neumann tried not to show his
unease. 'Well, Dieter, it seems madness prevails after all. I suppose we'd
better keep the colonel happy and try to get airborne.'

'Ready when you are, sir. We'll be
first off, I'm told.'

'Why not?' replied Neumann
sarcastically.