Glenn Meade (50 page)

He peered out of the cockpit. Ahead
of them was thick, unyielding fog, the Dakota's own take-off lights in the
wings barely illuminating the solid
greyness
. Two
ground crew were waving electric torches just a couple of meters from his nose
cone, though Neumann couldn't see the men properly, just the ghostly haze from
their torches. He inched the throttles forward gently and the Dakota began to
move, rumbling over the tarmac.

Taxiing was painfully slow.
Neumann kept to the tortuous pace the ground crews set. It took over ten
minutes to reach the runway threshold and line up as best he could. To left and
right of them, the runway lights were on full, but even the powerful beams they
threw out were mere electric fuzz, faint yellow coronas for less than thirty meters,
and then they were swallowed up by fog. Skorzeny came up to the cockpit,
impatient.

'Aren't we at the threshold yet?'

'We've just arrived. You'd better
get back with your men, Colonel. We're about to take off.'

'I'll stay here,' Skorzeny
answered, slipping into the vacant radio operator's seat, and strapping himself
in. 'Well, don't bloody hesitate, man. We haven't got all night. Go!'

Neumann didn't see the point of
arguing, or even replying.

He was conscious of a trickle of
sweat dripping off his nose as he eased the throttles forward. The roar from
the engines increased and he scanned his instruments. Suddenly the Dakota was
moving. As it gained momentum, and the co-pilot called out their speed, Neumann
tried his damnedest to keep the aircraft midway between the feeble strings of
runway lights, using the rudder as lightly as he could. It was difficult, and
with every passing second bursts of yellow from the beams shot past them to
left and right, faster and faster, the dynamic rhythm almost hypnotic as they
tore down the runway into a frightening wall of solid fog.

'Rotate,' the co-pilot finally
called out.

Neumann pulled back on the column.

The Dakota didn't budge.

For a moment, he had a sickening
feeling in his stomach that something had gone terribly wrong, but then the
aircraft struggled into the air with its full load. He called for the
undercarriage to be retracted, and by the time the flaps had been taken in,
they had burst out of the fog into clear night air.

Neumann permitted himself a quiet
release of breath, wiped another drop of perspiration from his face. 'So far so
good. Let's check if the others made it safely.'

Compared to the mess below, the
visibility above the fog ceiling was excellent - a crisp night, stars sparkling
in full, clear moonlight. Below them, a vast grey shroud obliterated the
night-time landscape. Neumann banked left, until they were at right angles to
their take-off heading, and then suddenly below them and to the left they saw
the second Dakota erupt out of the fog and climb steadily after its takeoff.

'Thank God for that,' muttered
Neumann. 'No unwelcome problems.' He glanced back at Skorzeny. 'Except, of
course, those that might lie ahead.'

Skorzeny put a hand on his
shoulder. 'Good work, Neumann.

I'll see you get a commendation
for this.'

'At my funeral, no doubt?'

'Don't be smart. Now, push those
throttles hard forward. I want to make this crossing in record time.'

Salter was perplexed. He wiped his
brow with the back of his sleeve, the barrack office uncomfortably hot, not
even an overhead fan to move the stifling air. 'You're sure it was German he
spoke?'

'That's what it sounded like to
me, boss.'

Doling stirred again, his face
bathed in perspiration, twisted in agony. '
Wasser
-'

'There he goes again. I think
that's what he said last time.’

'Yeah, but what's he fucking
saying?' Salter demanded.

'I picked up a few words when I
was guarding Jerry prisoners in the
Western
Desert
. Sounds to me like
he wants water.'

Salter frowned, nodded at the
metal bucket. 'Fetch a cup and give him some. Then ask him his name, in German
this time.'

Salter watched as the man ladled
water from the bucket with an enamel cup, and offered it to Doring. He was
still almost out of it, could barely sip. 'Was
ist
ihr
name?'

When Doring didn't respond, Salter
grabbed a handful of hair. 'Ask him again.'

'
Ihr
name? Was
ist
ihr
name?'
The young German groaned, eyes rolling to the ceiling.

'Doring.'

'What the bleeding hell's that
supposed to mean?' asked Salter.

'I think he said his name's
Doring. He's a Jerry, boss, no question. But what's he doing with Deacon and
his mates?'

Salter's face creased in
confusion. 'Ask him who his friends are, and what they've got planned. Ask
him-'

'Hold on a second, boss. My German
ain't that good.'

Salter exploded with exasperation,
fury in his face. 'Then it had better fucking improve fast. I want to know what
we're fucking dealing with here!'

'But I've only got a few Jerry
words-'

In a rage, Salter picked up the
metal bucket and threw the contents, drenching Doring completely, then flung
the bucket against the wall. It landed with a clatter, and Doring jerked and
shook water from his hair, suddenly conscious.

'Well, what do you know,' grinned
Salter. 'He's back in the land of the living. Get the ropes.' As two of his men
grabbed Doring's hands and secured them to the chair's armrests, Salter pulled
a chair over, gripped Doring's scalp. The German's eyes snapped fully open with
horror when he saw the pair of heavy pliers.

'Take a good look at these, mate.
Not exactly a pleasant way to accompany a chat, but I'm afraid you've left me
no option.

Now, we're going to start again.
Nice and easy this time. Tell me what I want to know, and you've got my word
you'll walk away from here a free man. But try holding back, and I promise,
it'll be blood and thorns all the way.'

Weaver felt the frustration grow
inside him, and it fuelled his anger. He was in the back of the staff car as it
headed towards Garden City, Sergeant Morris in the seat beside him.

There was no way he could attempt
to save Rachel unless he could make it to the airfield before Sanson, and the
agony was torturing him. And even if he could reach her first, what could he
do?

He looked out of the window. The
car was going too fast to jump, but as they came towards the
Old
Town
,
the driver slowed as they rounded a corner. Weaver saw his chance. He reached
for the door, pushed it half open, but Morris grabbed him and shouted to the
driver, 'Stop the bloody car!'

It screeched to a halt, Weaver was
flung back against the seat, and before he knew it Morris had an arm locked
around his neck. 'I really wouldn't try that, sir. You'll only get us both in
deeper trouble.'

Weaver struggled to get out of the
door, but Morris produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped them on
to his wrists. 'Calm down, sir, or you'll do yourself an injury.'

'You don't understand-'

'You can say that again. But mine
is not to reason why.'

As Morris checked that the
handcuffs were secure, Weaver protested. 'For Christ sakes, is there really any
need for these?'

'Sorry, sir, but I have my
orders.' Morris pulled the door shut, the car moved off again, and Weaver slumped
back in even deeper frustration.

When Schellenberg was led down to
Hitler's private office in the Chancellery underground bunker, the Fuhrer was
already waiting. Himmler was there also, the two men in splendid mood as they
relaxed in leather armchairs. They rose from their seats, and Himmler actually
smiled as he raised his arm in salute. 'Walter. Excellent news. Truly
excellent!'

Hitler clasped a hand on
Schellenberg's forearm. 'This gives me hope, Walter. Lifts my spirits
immeasurably. But what news of Skorzeny?'

'The word came from
Rome
as I left the
communications room. He took off ten minutes ago, despite heavy fog. But he's
well on his way by now.'

Hitler was excited. 'Let me see
the message from
Cairo
.'

Schellenberg handed across the
decoded signal from Deacon, and said as Hitler read, 'It's all happened quicker
than we thought. As you can see, Haider has successfully located Roosevelt at
the Mena House, breached the tunnel - which turns out to be of use to gain
entry to the hotel grounds - and has taken the airfield and successfully
secured the necessary transport to ferry Skorzeny's men to the target. He and
the others are awaiting the colonel's arrival, for the final act to begin. All
we can do now is bite our nails and wait.'

Hitler finished reading and looked
up. 'So, there's no need for this ace you've kept up your sleeve.'

Schellenberg smiled. 'It seems
not.'

Hitler was suddenly overcome. 'If
Skorzeny can finish this business, I'll make him a general. No - a field
marshal! He's an amazing man, capable of anything.'

'He's certainly that, mein
Fiihrer.'

As Hitler handed back the signal,
for a moment his expression became despondent.

'But it's hardly over yet. And I'm
disappointed about Churchill.'

'But at least we have
Roosevelt
clearly in our sights. And granted, it's not
over. But what a promising beginning, mein Führer.'

Hitler's mood swung again, and he
collapsed into his chair, gripping the armrests, as if the excitement were too
much to bear. His joy was obvious, a radiance in his face that neither
Schellenberg nor
Hirnmler
had witnessed in a long
time.

'Indeed. A very promising
beginning.'

Doring's scream rang around the
room. It sounded like the utterance of a wild animal in pain, and when it died,
his body twitched and his head fell to one side. One of Salter's men put a hand
to his neck, felt for a pulse. 'He's - he's dead, boss.'

'I can bloody see that.' Salter
tossed the pliers on the desk.

The German hadn't told him a
thing, not even after he'd pulled out three nails. In his anger, Salter had
whacked him hard across the skull with the heavy pliers. It was a blow too
many; the German screamed, his eyes bulged wildly, blood
haemorrhaged
from his nose, and then he fell still.

Salter wiped a film of greasy
sweat from his face, lit another cheroot to steady his nerves. 'You'd swear the
bastard was sworn to secrecy. Anyone in his right mind would have cracked
before it went this far. He was a tough nut, I'll say that much for him.'

He frowned suspiciously, looked at
Doring's body. 'I've got a funny feeling about this, a very funny feeling
indeed, and I don't bloody like it. What's Deacon and that captain doing
working with a German? Look at him. You ask me, he's the military type.'

'Maybe he's an escaped POW?'

'Maybe.' Salter looked
unconvinced.

'What do we do, boss?'

Salter checked his watch. 'We're
in for the full shilling's worth now, ain't we? Deacon's pals get back here in
less than an hour.' He paced the room, mulled things over, but more frustrated
than ever, the confusion eating him. He dropped the cheroot to the floor,
ground it with his boot. 'Get the Jerry out of the chair, and bring in the wog.
I'll get to the bottom of this if it's the last bleeding thing I do.'

The staff car trundled through a
rabbit-warren of side streets, five minutes away from GHQ.

Weaver's mind was working
feverishly. There was no way of retrieving the handcuff key from the sergeant.
The situation looked completely hopeless, but he knew he had to take his last
shot, and very soon, otherwise he'd be locked up in a cell with no chance of
escape. They came out of the side streets, cut right, and the car began picking
up speed, heading along the darkened Nile bank. The driver, a young corporal,
was concentrating on the road ahead, Morris staring idly out of the window. As
the driver swung right to overtake a donkey and cart, Weaver picked his moment
and lunged sideways, shoving all his weight against Morris. ' What the-'

The sergeant gasped, exhaling, all
the breath forced out of him from the impact, as Weaver reached across and
slapped his palms hard against the door handle. The door opened, he grabbed at
the frame, held on, and shouldered Morris. The sergeant rolled out of the moving
car with a startled cry.

The corporal glanced back,
horrified, slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt thirty yards
on. 'Bloody hell, you could have killed-'

Weaver thrust both his fists
forward, hitting the man square in the jaw. As the dazed corporal reeled back,
he was already climbing out of the car.

Ten minutes later he stepped into
a back-street hotel, breathless, his body drenched in sweat. An elderly
Egyptian sat behind an ancient reception desk, toying with a set of worry
beads. 'Effendi?'

'I need to use your telephone,'
Weaver panted.

'Apologies, effendi. The telephone
is only for hotel guests.'

'Just show me the damned
telephone!'

The old man noticed the handcuffs,
and thought better of arguing. 'Down - down the hall there is a booth.'

Weaver found it at the end of the
lobby, stepped in, fumbled to lift the receiver, and asked for the operator.

He heard the car pull up in the
back street. His heart skipped, and he hoped it wasn't the military police.
Then he saw Helen Kane come through the front door, wearing her uniform. She
stared at the handcuffs. 'Harry, what's going on-?'

'Did you bring the things I
asked?'

'Yes, but-'

He took her arm, moved towards the
door. 'I'll explain on the way.'

At the Shabramant crossroads, Sanson
was getting impatient. He paced up and down beside the Jeep, about to check his
watch again with a torch, when one of his men called out, 'I think this is
them, sir.’

Sanson peered along the darkened
road and saw a long line of headlights coming towards him fast, from the
direction of the city, clouds of dust in their wake. He counted three open-back
trucks filled with British soldiers, a staff car and a Jeep, and an armoured
car and a troop-carrier taking up the rear, a Bren gun mounted on top. He ran
forward to meet them.

The major in the front passenger
seat of the staff car had a loudhailer in his hand, and Sanson jumped on to the
running board, thrust his ID through the open window, and said urgently,
'Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson. How many men have you brought?'

'A hundred. You mind me asking
what the reason for all this is, sir?'

Sanson ignored the question,
yanked open the rear door, climbed in and said to the driver, 'Move up to the
head of the line and take the lead position.' He turned back to address the
major. 'You know the airfield at Shabramant?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want you to listen to me very
carefully-'

Helen Kane headed south from the
city on a dark, palm-lined country road, until Weaver said, 'Pull in.'

She swung the staff car into the
side. Weaver got out. 'Bring the gun.'

'You'll only get yourself in
deeper trouble, Harry. Do you really think this is wise?'

'The gun, Helen.'

She took a Colt automatic from
under her seat. 'I haven't fired a weapon since basic training.'

'Now's your time to get some
practice.' Weaver knelt at the side of the road, placed his palms flat on the
ground, stretching the handcuff chain. 'Do it.'

She knelt in front of him, moved
the tip of the barrel close to the chain, cocked the pistol.

'Pull the trigger,' Weaver urged.

She squeezed, there was an
explosion, the earth kicked up a cloud of dust, and the chain shattered. Weaver
stood, rubbing his wrists, the metal cuffs that remained still chafing his
skin. 'Did you manage to get the wire cutters?'

'No, but there's a hacksaw and
some tools in a kit I put in the boot.'

'They'll do. Give me the keys to
the car. I'll drive back some of the way. We'll find you a taxi-'

'There isn't time. Besides, I'm
going with you.'

'This isn't your business, Helen,
so don't be a fool. You're already risking a court-martial. I'm not going to
have you risk your life as well-'

There was a sudden, steely
determination in her voice. 'If you think after all this I'm going to miss the
final act, then you've got another think coming, Harry Weaver.' She found the
tools in the boot, tossed them on to the back seat and climbed back into the
car. 'Get in. I'm driving.'

Sanson ordered the convoy to halt
five hundred yards from the airfield, on the dirt road that led past the entrance.
Every headlight had already been doused two miles further back on the road, so
that their approach wouldn't be seen. He got out of the cab and studied the
airfield, as much of it as he could see in the moonlight. He could barely make
out the half-dozen or so huts and the two hangars. There was no proper fence,
just a barbed-wire run less than a couple of meters high on the left hand side
of the road. The opposite side stretched towards desert, nothing but
low-rolling scrubland, hard-packed sand dunes tufted with rough grass and the
odd palm tree.

He called the major over. 'Pick
two of your best men and send them ahead as scouts. And bring a radio operator
up here.'

'Yes, sir.' The major returned
minutes later with the operator and a couple of sergeants. 'These are my best
men for the job, sir.'

Sanson addressed them. 'I want you
to race the airfield - see if you can spot anything amiss. Keep an eye out for
any American trucks in particular. And for God's sake make sure you're not
seen. It'll ruin everything. Black up and off you go.

Try and get back here as quick as
you can.'

The men blackened their faces and
hands with axle grease from one of the trucks, then moved off into the
darkness, as Sanson said to the radio operator, 'Get in touch with RAF GHQ. Alert
them to keep a radar watch for any unidentified aircraft entering
Cairo
airspace - they may
be enemy intruders.

And I want a couple of night
fighters to circle the airfield. It's absolutely imperative nothing's allowed
to land there.'

'Well?' Sanson demanded, when the
scouts returned.

'It looks all quiet, sir,' the
first man reported: 'There're a couple of sentries in place at the main gate.'

'Did you notice any unusual
activity?'

'I can't say that we did, sir.
Everything looks fairly normal.

But we spotted three American
trucks parked just inside the gates.'

Sanson reacted, turned briskly to
the major. 'We're going in.

Get the men ready for a quick
briefing. I want to make sure they've got descriptions of who we're after,
especially Salter, Haider and the woman.’

Hassan was doused with a bucket of
water and dragged into the room, blood caked on his face from the gash Salter
had inflicted. He was groggy from the blow to his skull, but when he saw
Doring's body sprawled in a corner, he came suddenly awake.

'The lad should have been more
co-operative,' Salter remarked moodily. 'Let's hope you've got more sense.
Otherwise you're in for the same, or worse.' He nodded at the corpse. 'An
interesting thing. Your pal was a Jerry, name of Doring. There's something
very fucking fishy about this whole business. So how about you and me put our
differences aside, and you fill me in?'

Hassan glared back at him
obstinately, not a shred of fear in his face. 'I tell you nothing.'

Salter glanced at Doring's body.
'What is it with you and your friend? You part of some kind of secret society,
or what?

Put him in the chair, boys. Tie
down his hands.'

The men held Hassan down, lashed
his forearms to the armrests with the ropes, and Salter picked up the pliers.
He grabbed Hassan's right hand and placed the tips of the pincers on the index
fingernail. 'I'll ask again, just to be polite.'

Hassan spat defiantly in Salter's
face.

Salter wiped away the spittle,
barely able to control his rising temper, and snarled, 'Tough bleeding wog,
ain't you? Well, we'll see how tough you are when I've finished pulling your
nails and go to work on your testicles.' He grinned maliciously, tightened his
grip on the pliers. 'You know something, old flower? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't
looking forward to this.'