Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  The American? Thomson? Could Papa really have caught him in the lab? Could he really have gone there to kill him? She refused to believe that. Still, why else would Thomson have come back? He must be insane to take a risk like that, but he was not dangerous. It was Grüber and Hoess who were the dangerous ones. They had infected poor Papa with their megalomania, and Ilsa could not take it any longer. She must leave Egypt and she must persuade Papa to come with her, while there was still time. She heard him on the stairs and heard his bedroom door close. She wanted desperately to run in and confront him, but that would accomplish nothing, not in the mood he was in tonight. Besides, he was too close to it all and blinded by his own ambitions. He would never understand. He would never listen now, but maybe later. Perhaps he might, but that would take time. She heard the bedsprings creak. Many long minutes later, after his heavy breathing turned to soft snores, she knew he was asleep.

  She rose and went to the dresser and quickly changed from her nightgown into a pair of dark slacks and a heavy sweater. Slipping downstairs to the kitchen, she remembered there was a flashlight in the center drawer. The beam was weak, but it would do. She walked to the back door, pulled it open, and then paused, looking back into the kitchen, hesitating. Finally, she walked back to the cabinet and reached up to the top shelf, where her fingers found the butt of the old Luger. She gripped it firmly in the palm of her hand; and then jammed it into the waistband of her slacks, as she had seen men do in the American movies. However, this was not Hollywood, it was Egypt. The barrel of the Luger was inside her pants, pressing against her skin, and the cold steel made her shiver. Still, she had far worse things to fear. It was all becoming clear to her now, and it was that infuriating American, Thomson, who held the key. He knew what was going on here. If he escaped, then Grüber’s plan would surely collapse. They would be forced to stop, before someone got hurt — before a lot of people got hurt. The government would be forced to deny everything and throw them all out of the country. That would be even better. It would really be the end, and they could finally go home. If she was clever, she could help Thomson escape; and no one would suspect that she was the one who had done it. Home! Papa could get a teaching position somewhere, and maybe they could live a normal life for once. That was all Ilsa wanted, but she wanted it desperately.

  Outside the house, she hurried to the old Fiat and slipped it out of gear. Leaning her shoulder against the doorpost, she pushed the small sedan backward into the street. Out of earshot from the bungalow, she slipped inside and turned the ignition key, nursing the gas to keep the engine quiet. She did not want to wake Papa. Her nerves were so frayed, though, that the little car sounded like one of those old Russian tanks she heard running around the base day and night.

  As she drove past the dark row of cottages, she flicked on the headlights, fearing the car would attract more attention without the lights than with them. She drove on until she saw the hangar and approached it slowly. Her wristwatch showed 2:00 a.m. Papa had driven the machinists relentlessly for days now. With Papa home and in bed, the rest of them would have quickly gone home, too. They all knew that they would be up early to prepare for the test. That would leave only Grüber’s guards. Ilsa tried to remain calm, trying not to attract attention. If Papa really had Thomson locked up, he would have put him in the hangar, no doubt inside one of the storerooms or perhaps the tool locker. It had solid walls, a heavy door, bars on the window, and a lock, and the only place he would trust. Yes, that was where she would find Thomson.

  Ilsa drove down the road and looked at the windows that ran along the side of the building, counting them — five, six, seven. She could see that there were lights on inside those rooms, shining through the cracks; but the eighth room was dark. That would be the tool locker. She drove around back and got out of the car. After the guard passed, she walked down the side of the building and inched closer, using the flashlight, shielding the beam, and peering through the rusty bars and painted glass. She swore she saw a dim shape lying on the concrete floor. It must be Thomson, but he was not moving. She hurried to the far end of the hangar, turned the corner, and ran right into one of the security guards. “Oh,” she stammered, backing away as the guard raised his gun. “It’s me, Friedrich; you startled me,” she said, trying to sound calm. “You see, Papa forgot some papers, and I…”

  The guard stared at her for a few seconds, and then lowered the gun. “Ja, ja, Fräulein Fengler.” He nodded impatiently, motioning her toward the door.

  Ilsa rushed past him and jammed her key into the lock, shoving the door open and letting it close behind her. She collapsed against the hangar wall, her legs trembling and her heart pounding with fear. She was so afraid she almost vomited, yet she knew she must continue moving. If she did not this instant, she would lose her nerve.

  Ilsa stood along the left wall of the hangar, halfway back behind a tall stack of crates. As quietly as she could, she moved along the wall until she reached the corner and could look down the far side of the crates. She suddenly stopped, terrified. The guards! Wouldn’t Papa have posted guards there, too? This whole idea was insane. As she got closer, however, she saw that no one was there. Perhaps the guard had stepped away, perhaps he had gone outside, or perhaps there were not any guards in here at all. They all worked for Grüber. After Papa’s argument with him, she knew Papa would never have asked him for help. Papa said they had Thomson locked up, bound, and gagged; so he must have thought that was enough. Whatever the reason, Ilsa could not wait.

  Pulling the Luger from the waistband of her slacks, she walked quickly toward the door of the tool locker. It was closed and bolted from the outside; but there was no lock, only a big sliding bolt. She grabbed it and tugged until it slid free, and she could pull the door open. As she did, she heard a smug voice speak to her from only a few feet away.

  “Perhaps you could use some help, Fräulein Fengler?” the voice mocked her. She did not have to look to know whose voice it was. It was Grüber’s. He stood between two wooden crates, leering at her with the same cruel, arrogant expression she had seen less than half an hour before.

  Grüber stepped closer and said, “So, you want to help your American friend again, eh? I suspected as much, but now we have the proof, don’t we?”

  “No! I — uh —” she stammered, trying to think.

  “Oh, yes.” He laughed as he stepped closer. “It appears that you have gotten yourself — and your father — in a great deal of trouble this time, Ilsa,” he said as he put his hand on her shoulder. “With other women, I can normally make some arrangements to help them out of jams like this. Unfortunately, you have never liked soldiers, have you? No, you appear to be one of those proper little thirty-year-old virgins who are always looking down on us. You’ve been looking down on us soldiers ever since you arrived, haven’t you?”

  “Not on all soldiers, Herr Grüber, only pigs like you!”

  Grüber’s eyes flashed, and he shoved her against the wall.

  She raised the Luger from behind her back and held it out with both hands, pointing it at his chest. She was terrified, and they both knew it. “Stop right where you are,” she ordered.

  Grüber laughed. With one swift motion, he slapped her hard across the face with one hand and grabbed the gun barrel with the other, twisting it out of her grasp as if he were taking a toy from a bad child.

  Her cheek burned, and she could feel the tears welling up inside.

  “Ilsa, you know nothing of soldiers like me, but you soon will,” he taunted her, as he casually tossed the Luger aside. With another quick move, he grabbed her shoulders and threw her onto the floor, hard. He jumped on top, digging a knee into her stomach and knocking the wind out of her. Then he straddled her and said, “In Russia, when we found a surly bitch like you, this usually did the trick. It was strange how we always found them a bit more polite afterwards… sometimes even appreciative.”

  She tried to shove him away, but he grabbed her sweater and ripped it open, laughing as he
looked down at her small, bare breasts. She reached up and scratched at his cheeks with her fingernails, gouging them like an angry cat and drawing blood. He growled and slapped her across the face again. She screamed in pain, but he slapped her repeatedly, punishing her with each blow until she had to cover her head with her arms. His assault came so fast that everything spun around inside her head. She heard him laughing, but she was helpless to stop him. His hands dropped to her breasts. He grabbed them, rubbing hard and pinching both nipples. She screamed again and shook her head.

  “If you aren’t nice to me,” he warned sarcastically, “I will hurt you a lot worse than that before I’m finished; and believe me, I know how to hurt a woman.”

  His powerful hand grabbed the waistband of her slacks and she felt them rip. Desperately, she turned her head and saw the Luger lying on the bare concrete floor near the wall. She stretched her hand as far as it would reach and was able to wrap her fingers around the barrel. She swung it at him, clubbing him across the forehead with all her strength.

  He toppled off to one side, but she kept the rain of blows coming as he tried to block them and right himself. “You little bitch,” he swore, finally grabbing her arm and twisting her wrist backward until the sharp pain made her drop the gun. It was hopeless. She watched his eyes as he ran his free hand across his forehead, pausing to look at the blood, then holding his fingers in front of her eyes so she could see. “You shall pay dearly for this,” he whispered angrily, as he ripped her slacks open and began to unfasten his belt.

  She screamed again as she heard him say, “Oh, yes, you will pay dearly…” but before he could finish the sentence or carry out his threat, his head suddenly snapped to the left with a violent jerk. His eyes bulged out, and then rolled up in his head. He seemed to float there above her, his body going limp until another powerful blow struck him on the other side of the head; and he toppled off her onto the floor, unconscious.

  Ilsa did not know what had happened. She stared at Grüber’s face, lying only inches away from hers; but she was too terrified to move. Finally, she forced her eyes to look up towards a dim figure towering above both of them, backlit against the bright overhead lights. The figure wobbled back and forth, holding a long wooden two-by-four in its hands.

  “Thomson!” she cried out hysterically.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  She grabbed the torn edges of her sweater and pulled them together, trying to hide her embarrassment and anger. Not that it mattered, because Thomson could not see a thing. His face was bloody and bruised and his eyes swollen as he stood over her, wobbling back and forth on legs that barely supported him. Finally, he let the heavy board slip from his grasp and clatter onto the bare concrete floor. His hand reached out and found the wall, stopping his fall. He managed to slowly collapse against it, holding his ribs as he slid down the wall and joined her on the floor.

  “God, that felt nice,” he said as he looked down at Grüber’s unconscious form. “Those were the best swings I’ve taken since Little League. I never hit for the average, but I was a terror in the clutch. Guess I should have tried a two-by-four,” he added as he tried to smile. “Sorry it took so long to get out here. I had a little trouble getting up off the floor. I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

  “No.” She quickly looked away, not knowing what to say to him. “Thanks to you, he didn’t; but he would have. I shall be fine,” she told him as she finally turned back and saw what he looked like. “My God, what did they do to you?” she asked, deeply concerned. She sat up and leaned over him, her fingers carefully examining his cuts and bruises. As she did, her torn sweater fell open again, exposing her breasts; but this time she ignored it.

  It did not matter. Thomson’s eyes were closed as he felt her fingers gently touching his face. Her stroke was firm but delicate and strangely comforting to him. “Don’t worry,” he tried to smile. “I’ll live.”

  “Is anything broken?”

  “Mostly my pride, and maybe a rib or two,” he grimaced as he opened his eyes and looked at her. “What brings you around here? Visiting hours?”

  “I wanted to help you escape, but Grüber caught me. Is — is he the one who beat you?”

  “No, sorry to say, it was your old man and a couple of his pals. We can chat about that later. We need to get out of here, before they come back.”

  “Papa is sleeping. Let me help you up.” She took his arm and helped pull him to his feet. “I have a car parked outside. Can you walk that far?”

  “All depends on what’s chasing me. Wait a minute, though.” He grimaced in pain as he bent down and retrieved her Luger from the floor. “This might come in handy,” he said as he leaned on her shoulder, letting her take his weight.

  “What about him?” she asked angrily, as she looked down at Grüber, holding the sweater closed with her hand.

  “Don’t worry. He’s down for the count — unless you want me to kill him?” From the look on her face, he could see it wasn’t much of a joke. “No, neither of us is up to that right now; and we’re running out of time.” He motioned toward the rear door.

  When they got there, she propped him against the wall and opened the door far enough to peek outside. “Quick,” she said as she turned back, opening the door wide and taking a firm grip on his arm. “The guard must be on the other side. We must hurry before he comes around.”

  They stumbled across the tarmac until they reached the deep shadows and could slow down. They made it to the car without being challenged. She crammed him into the passenger seat, quickly ran around and got behind the wheel, started the engine, and then sat there, staring through the windshield with a worried frown on her face.

  “I guess this is as far as your plan went?” he asked calmly.

  “No — well, yes.” She looked over helplessly. “I thought I could set you free and go back home. I did not expect — oh, I don’t know!”

  “Okay… just head for the front gate, Ilsa. I can’t stay here and neither can you now, not after all this.”

  “I — I did not expect to become this involved.”

  “Sorry. I truly am,” he said. “I didn’t want you involved either, but it’s way too late now. We’re in it together, whether we like it or not.”

  She looked over at him with a sad smile and nodded. She put the small car in gear and gunned the engine. It kicked up a cloud of dust and gravel as she drove back to the road.

  Thomson laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy until we reach the gate.”

  “You know I will not be able to talk us through like the last time,” she warned, looking at him and then at her own torn clothes.

  “We aren’t going to try.”

  As they drove across the dark base in silence, Thomson looked at her and began to worry. This was not the way he wanted it, either. He always worked alone, and this was no place to drag an amateur, especially a woman. Unfortunately, he was beginning to really like her, and dragging her further and further into this snake pit was neither smart nor fair. She was too vulnerable and too fragile, but what choice did he have? When Grüber finally woke up, she was finished here; and there was no place he could stash her. No, like it or not, they were stuck with each other until it was over.

  When they got within sight of the gate, he saw the headlights of another car approaching the gate from the opposite direction. “Slow down and turn your headlights off,” he said as he put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Relax, and time it so we reach the gate at the same time as they do, and don’t start thinking. Do exactly what I tell you and it will work just fine. You got that?” She nodded and swallowed hard, clearly not convinced. Thomson watched the guard step up to the heavy, counterbalanced wooden gate. He was looking out toward the other car and didn’t see the small Fiat behind him. As it got closer, Thomson saw it was that same dark Mercedes sedan. The guard started to raise the gate to let it pass as Ilsa began to say something, but Thomson cut her off, his attention focused on the guard. Finally, the man heard the Fi
at and turned his head to see who was coming up from behind.

  “Steady,” Thomson warned. “Slow down, just like you always do.” When they got within thirty feet of the barrier, he snapped, “Now! Floor it!” and she did.

  The small engine roared and the car leaped forward, accelerating as it headed toward the opening. The gate was already halfway up, and all the bewildered guard could do was leap aside as the Fiat shot under the barrier, clipping the support pole and sending chunks of wood flying through the air. As they raced past the Mercedes, Thomson turned his head long enough to glimpse inside the car. Two Egyptian Army officers sat in the rear seat, staring back at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the Fiat roared past and disappeared down the dirt road behind them in a cloud of dust.

  “We have less than twelve hours,” Colonel Rashid stated. “Are all your units at their jump-off points, ready to move on Cairo?” He continued his methodical questioning, staring vacantly out the car window as the dark desert landscape rolled past.

  “Yes,” General al-Baquri answered nervously. “I told you that before.”

  “And I shall ask you again… and again!” Rashid turned his head and glared at the General. Al-Baquri might outrank him, but not in this. Frankly, Rashid terrified him.

  “Yes, yes,” the older man swallowed hard. “The tanks are moving as we speak. They shall be in place by dawn.”

  “There is no margin for error here, al-Baquri… none.”

  “Do you think I do not know that? The rest of us have as much at risk here as you do, Rashid,” he argued, indulging his anger by using the Colonel’s surname. After all, al-Baquri still had his pride, not that rank mattered. In the larger scheme of things, the General did not come up to the Colonel’s knees; and they both knew it.