The Fighting Agents Part 32

When it was aboard, the boat headed for the beach in a wide curve.

"I don't know how he's going to like this," Ferniany said.

"I hadn't planned to ask him," Canidy snapped. "Maybe he'll be smart enough not to volunteer an opinion."

The moment he said it, he was a little sorry. There was something in the chemistry between him and Ferniany that produced dislike without real reason. But that wasn't why he had snapped at him. The reason for that was that Ferniany was close to the truth. "Saint Peter," the OSS agent on the fis.h.i.+ng boat, was probably not going to like what he was about to learn. Nor would Stevens and Bruce, and if it got that far, Capt. Dougla.s.s or Colonel Donovan.

The OSS agents on the scene would be annoyed both by having their thunder stolen by a visiting bra.s.s hat and by the extra risk his grandstanding would mean. And Stevens and Bruce would bitterly question his decision to go into Hungary himself. First and foremost was the question of his running the risk of falling into German hands. And right on the heels of that was the equally valid question of whether he could do what had to be done any better than Yachtsman and Saint Peter could do it.

Captain Hughson touched Canidy's arm.

"There's a rock over the water," he said. "You can jump from it to the boat."

He nodded toward it.

"Would you like to take this with you?" Hughson asked, unslinging his Sten submachine gun from his shoulder and offering it to Canidy.

"Have you got another one?"

"Actually," Hughson said, "there's a Schmeisser in my cell I've been looking for an excuse to carry."

"Then thank you, Hughson," Canidy said, and took the submachine gun from him.

"You will be a good chap, won't you, Major, and make an effort to return the Sten to me, in person?" Hughson said.

"Despite what everybody apparently thinks," Canidy said, "I am not not charging foolhardy into the valley of death." charging foolhardy into the valley of death."

"No, of course you aren't," Hughson said. He put out his hand, and Canidy took it.

The boat nosed in to the rock. First Ferniany and then Canidy jumped onto the deck. Immediately, the boat headed offsh.o.r.e.

There were two men in the wheelhouse, both dark-haired and dark-skinned, both needing a shave, and both dressed in dark blue fisherman's trousers and rough brown sweaters. It was only when one of them spoke in English to Ferniany that Canidy had any idea which was the genuine fisherman and which the SOE agent with the code name "Saint Peter."

"And what, might one dare inquire, is one supposed to do with this downed, if intrepid, aviator?" Saint Peter asked in an upper-cla.s.s British accent.

Ferniany chuckled. "Major Canidy, may I introduce Lieutenant J.V.M. Beane-Williams, late of the Household Cavalry?"

"How'd'ja do?" Lt. Beane-Williams said with a smile, offering his hand. "I hate to put it to you so bluntly, Major, but you have, so to speak, just entered the 'Out' door. England . . . I presume you came from England . . . is in quite the opposite direction."

Canidy chuckled. He liked this Englishman.

"Hughson tells me that you can put us ash.o.r.e on the mainland," Canidy said.

"I presume there is a reason?" Saint Peter said.

"Someplace where we can make contact with Mihajlovi's guerrillas," Canidy said. "Our ultimate destination is Budapest, and the sooner we can get there, the better."

"Budapest is rather nasty this time of year," Saint Peter said. "Snow and slush, and ever-increasing numbers of the Boches. But I daresay you've already considered that, haven't you?"

Without waiting for a reply, he entered into a conversation with the Yugoslavian captain.

Finally, he turned to Canidy.

"Todor suggests we put you ash.o.r.e at Ploe," he said. "He has a first cousin twice removed there. Or did he say a 'second cousin, once removed'? He also asked that I express his practically boundless admiration for your wrist.w.a.tch. "

Canidy looked at the Yugoslavian captain, who was smiling warmly at him, exposing two gold and two missing teeth.

Then he unstrapped his chronometer and handed it to him.

The Yugoslavian said something, and Saint Peter translated.

"He says, 'Oh, I couldn't.' "

"Tell him I insist," Canidy said.

The Yugoslav unstrapped his cheap watch and handed it to Canidy.

"He says," Saint Peter said, "that if you insist . . . "

Canidy chuckled.

"It's sixty miles, or thereabouts, to Ploe," Saint Peter said. "If we're not stopped, it should take us four, perhaps four and a half hours."

"And if we're stopped?"

"Then none of us will get to visit Ploe's many historical and cultural attractions," Saint Peter said.

X.

1.

CAIRO, EGYPT 1220 HOURS 17 FEBRUARY 1943.

First Lieutenant Hank Darmstadter was riding in the copilot's seat working the radios when Commander John Dolan suddenly reached over and grasped his upper arm in a very tight grip.

Startled, Darmstadter looked at him. Dolan's face was white and beaded with sweat. He seemed to be in pain.

"Indigestion," Dolan said with a terrible effort. "There's a bottle of medicine in my briefcase. Get it, will you?"

The first thing Darmstadter remembered, as he hastily unfastened his seat and shoulder harness, was that Dolan had been medically retired from the Navy before the war because of a heart condition.

Jesus, he's having a heart attack!

Dolan's black leather Navy-issue briefcase was on a shelf in the pa.s.sageway between the c.o.c.kpit and the auxiliary fuel tanks that had been installed in the bomb bay. Its contents expanded the accordion folds, and Darmstadter grunted with the effort it took to open the catch and the straps that held it closed.

As he started rummaging through the briefcase, he glanced past the auxiliary fuel tanks into the fuselage. The German girl was looking at him. She had her hair done up in braids, which she had then coiled on the sides of her head. Darmstadter wondered who she was and why getting her and her father out of Germany had been worth all the effort it had cost.

They had been introduced, and she had politely shaken hands, but had remained silent. From the way her eyes had followed the conversation, however, Darmstadter had known that she at least understood English. And yet she had asked no questions, not even about where they were taking her. He wondered if she was in some kind of emotional shock, or simply acknowledging that for the moment she had no voice whatever in what happened to her.

Then he had a strange thought. He wondered what she had done during the flight about taking a leak. There was a relief tube in the c.o.c.kpit, but that wouldn't have done her any good, even if she had known about it and asked for it.

He returned his attention to Dolan's briefcase. There was everything in it, from a copy of TM B-25-1 Flight Operation B-25 Series Aircraft TM B-25-1 Flight Operation B-25 Series Aircraft to a change of socks and underwear and a toilet kit. And a pint bottle of a bright red liquid with a label reading "Medical Corps, U.S. Army" and the typewritten message: "Lt. Commander J. B. Dolan, USNR, Take As Required for Indigestion." to a change of socks and underwear and a toilet kit. And a pint bottle of a bright red liquid with a label reading "Medical Corps, U.S. Army" and the typewritten message: "Lt. Commander J. B. Dolan, USNR, Take As Required for Indigestion."

Darmstadter hurried back to the c.o.c.kpit.

Dolan reached for the bottle. Darmstadter unscrewed the cap and handed it to him.

"Sit down and take the airplane," Dolan ordered. Then he waited until Darmstadter had gotten back into the copilot's seat, fastened his seat and shoulder belts again, and nodded to show his readiness to fly the airplane before he put the bottle of bright red liquid to his lips.

He took a large swallow, hesitated, and then took a second. In a moment, the look of pain on his face went away, and he managed a weak smile.

Darmstadter looked at the instrument panel. They had been homing in on the Cairo RDF for the past thirty minutes. The needle on the signal-strength gauge was almost at the upper peg. They were flying ten degrees to the left of the direction indicated by the needle on the RDF antenna indicator.

Darmstadter made the course correction and then looked at Dolan again. The startling paleness was gone from his face.

"You better start letting down," Dolan ordered. "Thousand feet a minute."

Darmstadter nodded, then reached over his head for the trim wheel and lowered the nose. After that, he r.e.t.a.r.ded the throttle just a hair.

There was time to reconsider his first alarmed conclusion that Dolan was having a heart attack. That had been, he decided, a fear reaction. What was wrong with Dolan was what Dolan had told him: an attack of indigestion. He probably had them often, for he was carrying the bright red indigestion medicine with him.

Dolan said something, and Darmstadter missed it.

"Excuse me?"

"I said it must have been Canidy's G.o.dd.a.m.ned steaks," Dolan said, leaning over to make himself heard over the roar of the engines. "Every time I eat charred meat, it does it to me."

Darmstadter nodded.

He was right back to Dolan was having, had had, a heart attack Dolan was having, had had, a heart attack. He'd smelled Dolan's breath when the older man had leaned over. Whatever was in that bottle, bright red or not, usually came in a narrow-necked bottle with a label reading "Sour Mash Bourbon."

"You better sit it down," Dolan said, leaning over again and sending Darmstadter another cloud of bourbon fumes. Then he slumped back against the cus.h.i.+ons of the pilot's seat and took another healthy swallow of "indigestion medicine."

Darmstadter reached for the microphone and put it before his lips.

"Cairo, Army Four Three Three."

A voice with the unmistakable tones of Brooklyn came over the earphones.

"This is Cairo, go ahead, Army Four Three Three."

"Army Four Three Three, a B-25 aircraft, is pa.s.sing through niner thousand about thirty miles north of your station. Request approach and landing."

"Four Three Three, Cairo. The winds are from the north at ten, gusting to twenty. Visibility is unlimited. The altimeter is Two Niner Niner Niner. Descend to three thousand feet and report when you have the airfield in sight."

"Cairo, Four Three Three. Understand three thousand," Darmstadter said, and hung his microphone up.

Then Dolan's voice came over his earphones, and he turned and saw that he had his microphone in front of his lips.

"Cairo," Dolan said. "Four Three Three. Four Three Three is Ninth Air Force flight Four Zero Five. Acknowledge. "

Darmstadter wondered what the h.e.l.l that meant. It didn't surprise the Cairo tower.

"Four Three Three," the operator with the Brooklyn accent said, "Cairo. Roger your Flight Four Zero Five."

Darmstadter could see three large pyramidal structures to his left.

My G.o.d, those are the pyramids!! The real ones!

And then he looked to his left and picked up his microphone again.

"Cairo, Four Three Three, I am at four thousand five hundred. I have the field in sight."

"Four Three Three, Cairo. Maintain present course and rate of descent. You are cleared as number one to land on Runway Three Four. The altimeter is Two Niner Niner Niner. The winds are from the north at ten, gusting to fifteen. Report on final."

"Four Three Three, roger."

Darmstadter looked at Dolan as he reached for the throttle quadrant. Now there was a sort of dazed look on his face. And he had not reached for the plastic sealed landing checkoff list hanging from the instrument panel.

Darmstadter realized that he was going to have to land the airplane himself, without help. But he was more concerned about Dolan's condition than he was about getting the flaps and gear down without help.

He turned to the right, then the left.

"Cairo, Four Three Three on final."

"Roger, Four Three Three. You are number one to land. Look out for the C-47 on the threshold."

Darmstadter put on twenty degrees of flaps, then lowered the gear. He came in low and slow and put it on the ground within a hundred yards of the threshold.

"Four Three Three on the ground."

"Four Three Three, take Taxiway Five, a Follow Me will meet you."

"Roger," Darmstadter said.

Taxiway Five was the last turnoff. As he taxied down the runway to it, Darmstadter saw a jeep racing down a taxiway parallel to the runway. The jeep was painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, with a huge checkerboard flag above it flapping in the wind.

When he turned the B-25 off the runway, the jeep was there waiting for him. It led him to a remote corner of the field. There was a large hangar there whose doors were being opened as they arrived.

The Follow Me jeep stopped, and a ground handler hopped out and signaled for Darmstadter to move to the hangar doors. When the nose of the B-25 was ten feet from them, he gave the throat-cutting sign to stop engines.