Flying Without Wings

by Paula Wynne

  He turned sideways to grin at Rick, but his companion’s other hand jerked wildly as his eyes suddenly opened wide and rolled backwards in his head. Immediately all his limbs were jerking, and he started to drift away, out of control.

  John’s hand lunged out to grab his friend. He tried to right Rick’s body, but his face had reddened, and he kept tilting over, like an up-turned boat.

  Each time John pulled him back to face him, Rick’s eyes were elsewhere, bulging and out of focus. His rasping breaths spat out his regulator.

  John put everything into his gaze, mentally ordering his man, but also himself, to calm down, as he shoved the regulator back into Rick’s mouth.

  Of all the dangers they faced, he was most conscious of the risk of blacking out under water, which could so easily be fatal.

  At the same time, a light-headedness gripped him. He gulped on his air tank in short, fast breaths. An odd hum throttled in his ears and he felt hot, despite the near freezing water. He squeezed his eyes closed and quickly opened them, trying to focus, to check on Rick.

  His long-time friend and hunting assistant was clawing at his own cheeks, dragging his fingers down as if trying to scrape something off his face. Again Rick’s regulator fell out, this time pushed out by a scream of agony.

  His pulse raced and he clenched his jaw to try and stop himself hyperventilating. Whatever it was had been building slowly and relentlessly within him. He clenched harder on the bar that was anchoring him.

  A sharp pain shot through his chest and his legs went weak. The sound of his racing heartbeat in his eardrums terrified him.

  Black spots danced in front of his eyes, and they clouded as a bout of dizziness drowned out all sense.

  Shit! What the fuck is happening?!

  He thought of Rick again. It was a struggle to turn, but when he managed, he saw his friend drifting aimlessly and rigid except for the spasmodic twitching of his limbs.

  Even as he watched Rick’s body sink slowly into the depths of the cavern, what had been an itching tingle became an invisible force that pulled at John’s face, and the pain of it was so intense that he raked his fingers down his face in a desperate bid to scrape it away. As a yell broke from him, his regulator fell from his mouth.

  His mind spewed an entire dictionary of crude curses and they jumbled chaotically together. Rick’s face mooned up from below him, deformed and contorted by agony, and frozen in death.

  Rick barely looked human anymore, but he did resemble someone from John’s memories: Elza. Just before they had finally killed her. As John’s vision swam around the chamber and saw that the metal bars on the walls formed a cage structure, he realised that he himself was now in a giant version of the Frying Room in which they had destroyed his beloved sister.

  ‘No!’ cried every fibre of John’s will and being.

  He could not let the Nazis beat him in the end. Not this way.

  Despite not believing, John’s mind shrieked: Dear God, help me. He remembered Ima telling him to say the Shema Yisroel when he needed God to help, but he could not recall the words of that important prayer.

  Instead, he struggled to make his head look down so he could reach for his breather, but all he managed was to make his twitching body turn sideways and sink lower. As he did he met a stare from the chamber floor, the empty sockets and rictus grin of a skull. He had broken the code and now he was paying the price.

  A primal scream erupted from John’s convulsing lungs.

  Then his vision went black.

  41

  The New Falcon

  July 1985, Little Hollow Hall

  The new Falcon heard her Mercedes’ wheels squeal as Glynn Liner drove through the ornate, wrought iron gates of Little Hollow Hall. She watched him speed up the winding tree-lined drive that cut across the acres and acres of parkland. The idiot was so full of testosterone you’d think he poured it on his cereal each day.

  From her vantage point in the hired office suite, she could see down the Aldermaston valley, to the dual carriageway between Newbury and Reading, as well as across the countryside in-between. Dotting the landscape were old country houses. Made of stone, they sat beside each other in a charming, lazy way with small gardens out back and colourful trailing baskets out front.

  One way or another, not even the little details escaped her. From Glynn stupidly kicking the dog in his masquerade near the airfield a few days ago, to his petrol-headed race up to their new offices.

  For a moment, the recollection of her former home saddened her, but she quickly wiped it away. There was no room in her heart for fond memories.

  These days the manor was a business conference centre, and she had taken over the south wing. Paying a small country hotel big money meant she could do just about anything she liked, but all she wanted was to be close to the airfield. Within spying distance.

  A soft breeze whispered to the birds tweeting in the tall silver birch leaves, giving the park a serenity that belied what was about to take place.

  Here and there a small group of speckled deer munched on lawns that had been specially manicured to receive them. On this unusually hot summer’s day, a few collected under squat oak trees for a bit of shade.

  Another squeal and she shook her head. She watched with contempt as Glynn aimed at the VIP parking beside the old building’s front door. He slammed on the brakes and came to a halt parked diagonally over a white line, taking two spaces. Leaving the dog in the boot with no windows open, he leapt out of the car and in a few long strides he entered an arched oak door.

  She exhaled, as if blowing out a thin stream of cigarette smoke. Another chat was on the cards. The idiot, like most men she knew, hadn’t listened to her all-important words: Don’t stick out like a sore thumb.

  Her eyes narrowing, she kicked the decorative wrought iron balcony balustrade. The egotist would certainly get noticed for that! No one could stand seeing a dog panting in a locked-up car.

  A chorus of four-letter words exploded through her mind. They were too foul to repeat, even for her.

  A moment later, Glynn was striding into the office with a smug look on his face. She wiped it off quickly with her calm, yet sharp words, ‘Don’t stick out like a sore thumb also means don’t leave the dog in a hot, locked car.’

  ‘Ah, sorry!’ He slapped his forehead.

  She mouthed one of the curses. He was already driving her nuts.

  From the huge glass windows overlooking the park-like gardens, they could see who came to the airfield. She had immediately sent Glynn, in her car, to give the place a once over with the mutt as a disguise. And if their paths crossed in public, they acted like they didn’t know each other.

  It was part of her plan to dress each day with specific goals and targets in mind. Like today, with her tanned bust pouring out of her tight dress. Of course, it had to be ivory for showing her virginal innocence. Yet, by the way it hugged her shapely curves, it hooked men like Glynn into desiring her, and, more precisely, doing almost anything she asked without questioning her motives.

  There was a lot to achieve today. And most of it was already leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

  Julius Jordan, who presided over Solaris, a prestigious group of private collectors of Nazi artefacts, had been her father’s former main client and had given Glynn, to whom he entrusted various pieces of dirty work, the job of being the Falcon’s right hand man. Her right hand man.

  The new Falcon.

  Since the accident, she had taken over her father’s role, so it was only right she also adopt his moniker.

  Despite only being in her twenties, she communicated on the same level as the best private collectors of German artefacts in Europe. Falcon had been the risk-taker, the man who would research and find locations to search, and then go out and retrieve the hidden fortunes.

  After the accident, she had called Julius about documentation and evidence from her father’s study, and the private collector had opened his arms to the Falcon’s daughter. It h
ad not been easy, but she had shown him that she was as cunning and intuitive as her father. And there was more to come, of that she was certain.

  Glynn, back from releasing the hound from its oven and suitably contrite, handed her a take-out coffee and cinnamon bun. Of all things, she detested cinnamon!

  While sipping, she looked into the glass of an antique cabinet that she’d positioned herself beside deliberately and watched Glynn’s lecherous eyes roam over her. From her straight shoulders, down over her breasts that she had overheard him call a “stunning pair of headlights”, across her smooth, hour-glass waist and over her toned butt and thighs. Loving the sensation of male adoration, she let him ogle for a long moment.

  ‘So,’ Glynn blew on his steaming coffee, ‘that reporter roaming around…you think he’s onto Sommer?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she arched her back with the intention of sending thrills straight to his groin.

  Glynn kept his gaze on her. ‘You think he escaped with the map?’

  ‘Mm, he could have passed his secrets down to his new family.’

  ‘Or taken them to the grave with him.’

  She ignored his remark. ‘The big question is what he did with the blueprint.’

  ‘Blueprint?’ Glynn scratched his head, looking puzzled. ‘I thought we were hunting a map.’

  ‘We are,’ she gave him a coy smile to make him believe she was slyly telling him she had the hots for him. ‘It’s Hitler’s ultimate blueprint which charts all his secret treasure locations.’

  ‘And you still think it’s hidden in the hangar?’ Glynn shook his head. ‘No way. I cased the place. It’s just a pile of shit inside. Dusty and oily aeroplane parts.’

  She placed her coffee on the desk and leaned over to give him an excellent view of her cleavage. ‘I think there’s a hidden bunker under that airfield hangar.’

  ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’

  She reached over to take two remote controls off her desk and aimed the first at the TV in the corner and the second at the VCR below it. For a moment they watched a group of water engineers digging ground to lay new pipes, and then suddenly the ground caved in, exposing an underground tunnel. The TV clip ended with the engineer explaining how they had found the bunker under a Hampshire airfield. Similar to the one they were watching.

  She aimed the remote back at the TV and switched it off. ‘You see, anything is possible. My father’s research shows there were underground bomb shelters around here, originally intended for the locals to escape the air raids, but then used for something else and finally forgotten. If Sommer was hiding here after the war, there’s a chance he found out about one of these bunkers. In those days it would be the most likely place to hide such a precious map.’

  Glynn was Rick’s nephew, so he knew enough of the family history. He touched her arm. ‘I’m sorry the Falcon came home all monster-like, but I’m not sorry he raised you with his same instincts for treasures.’

  She gave him a sweet, sad smile.

  ‘Okay,’ Glynn murmured, ‘what’s the next plan?’

  ‘We need to get inside that hangar. After the festival, they’ll all be off guard by then.’

  ‘What about the lads?’

  ‘We’ll deal with anyone who stands in our way.’ She inhaled deeply and stood, pausing to stretch out her leg. This time it wasn’t to keep Glynn’s testosterone raging, it was because doing the stupid, fake limp made it ache slightly.

  He gaped. ‘Even the kids you once knew?’

  ‘Even them.’

  A smirk twisted Cami’s golden face. First she had snared the cripple. Now for his cousin.

  But before that bit of fun she had some homework to do. She might be continuing her father’s work, but that only made it more important that she learn how to not meet the same fate.

  42

  Oxford University

  Cami stretched out her hand to Professor Lowton. From his soft, gravelly voice on the phone she had expected him to be white-haired, but his clay coloured mane was flung haphazardly back off his doubly high forehead.

  Something about his smooth complexion reminded her of one of those English romantic comedy leads, where a rather fussy bachelor turns out to be quite dashing after all.

  ‘Thank you so much for meeting me.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’ When his thin lips smiled, they almost looked as though they were grimacing.

  Although she had called in the favour from one of the Solaris members, a retired history professor at Oxford who had arranged this meeting, this physics professor had been led to believe she was a novelist looking for some expertise. Her contact, Professor Radcliffe, had made the appointment privately so he wouldn’t have to explain to any assistant or university staff the reasons for Cami’s visit. She had also insisted upon the name Emma, just because it sounded so like what Papi had used to call his mother.

  ‘As I said on the phone, I’m writing a Nazi war thriller on this subject and I’d appreciate asking you some questions to ensure my story is authentic.’

  ‘Of course. Any friend of Professor Radcliffe’s need only ask. Follow me.’

  He led her out of the light biscuit-coloured, 18th-century Clarendon Building, with its imposing entrance and numerous featured windows, then, across the Clarendon Quad under the watchful gaze of a picturesque mixture of spires and gargoyles.

  Cami flexed her calf muscles to keep up with his pace. Damn the heels. They were worn to impress, not to walk miles around Oxford’s cobbles. His reedy-thin body and what looked like orthopaedic shoes seemed to be designed for scurrying quickly between buildings and keeping him away from the sunlight. He showed no inclination to do what most men did and dawdle slightly so that they could get a better view of her as she walked.

  ‘Do please hurry, I have a student coming later to…er, discuss quantum physics.’

  Even though he was doing a good friend a favour, he made it clear that he was grumpy about this use of his precious time.

  As she hurried to keep up with him, her silk scarf fluttered in the light breeze, tickling her neck.

  Thankfully, he waved her directly into another building showing off more of Oxford’s Gothic splendour.

  He looked at her and mumbled, ‘Like the Bod.’

  She blushed, but with pride. More forward than she would have expected, but he had noticed her lithe physique through the figure-hugging dress. She had no idea how an author dressed, probably fuddy-duddy or like a trumped-up detective, of which she was neither, so she had gone with a suitably understated version of her normal displaying of the wares, and it had finally been duly noted.

  ‘That is…do you like the Bodleian?’ He pointed. ‘It’s one of the oldest libraries in Europe.’

  Now her flush was angry, realising that he had asked if she liked the library, not commented on her body.

  He strolled on and apparently hadn’t noticed her mishap, so she shook her head inwardly. Maybe he preferred choirboys, or was just too damned nerdish to notice her “bod.”

  ‘I would take you in there, but silence is preserved and anyway time is pressing. We’ll be able to have a private conversation in my room. If that is alright?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you. That’s very kind of you.’ She glanced past the library’s security guard. The ceiling looked almost like stained-glass windows, with hundreds of coats of arms on mustard-yellow backgrounds encased in wooden beams. Certainly the kind of place you could imagine a medieval monk in his flowing robe with his nose buried in a book.

  The professor led her down a hallway of highly polished wooden floors that gleamed from the sunlight at the far end, streaming through an ornate arched window.

  ‘Here we are,’ he unlocked an oak door and ushered her into a musty room.

  The smell of old leather and wet socks hit her. She glanced around. Wooden shelves on either end were lined with books that didn’t look like any holiday read, more like endless rows of encyclopaedias. Then, she spotted a strange looking helmet, simi
lar to what a pilot would have worn in the war. It sat on top of discarded trainers stuffed with socks.

  Ah, his cycling helmet. So that was where the smell came from. He probably cycled to work each day and changed for lectures. How repellent.

  ‘Please,’ he indicated two chairs in the window recess, and she sunk into one and again caught the whiff of old leather.

  He joined her in the seat opposite and his eyebrows rose over his round rimmed glasses. ‘Right. Please ask away.’

  ‘In my research I came across something called an Energetischen Kaefig. An energy cage.’

  Professor Lowton nodded, clearly remembering the quick summary she’d given on the phone, but also frowning.

  In her honey voice, she explained, ‘It seems this energy cage can cause a human to lose their mind and their memory, somehow to have all the energy sucked out of them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma, but I do find this sort of misappropriation of scientific terminology rather vexing. What you describe sounds like a typical East German urban legend based on, at best, a very small kernel of truth.’

  As her throat closed up, Cami wanted to cry out: But I’ve seen what happened to my father!

  Instead, she breathed deeply and continued, ‘I also read about the Faraday Cage, which seems to be something that protects what is inside it against radiation.’

  ‘A Faraday Cage is a shield that predominantly takes the form of a cage-like structure to protect different kinds of mostly electronic equipment or those using it from unwanted radiation intrusion or emissions, yes .’

  ‘Ah, so if the Nazis…err, in my novel, if they had a chamber fitted with one of these cages, it could mean they are protecting something electronic inside, is that right?’

  ‘I couldn’t comment on your specific usage, but typically, yes.’

  ‘So this cage will block any kind of physical force?’

  The professor sighed. ‘No. They can’t block magnetic fields, including that of the earth. Nor such forces as gravity, obviously, but they can protect the interior from electromagnetic radiation coming from the outside. Or, as I said, prevent radiation within the cage from escaping.’