by W E Johns
‘How did you leave matters?’
‘I told him in a half-hearted sort of way that there was nothing doing, but at the same time tried to create the impression that I might be persuaded if it was made worth my while.’
‘Excellent! Go on.’
‘That’s all, sir. Naturally, I didn’t want to lose touch with him, in case you decided to arrest him, so I have made a provisional appointment—’
‘Arrest!’ The General opened his eyes in mock astonishment.
‘Why, yes, sir,’ faltered Biggles, puzzled. ‘I thought that if there was a chance of him being a spy, you would arrest him on—’
The General waved his hand. ‘Good gracious, Bigglesworth,’ he cried, ‘we don’t work like that. If the man is indeed a spy he will be far more useful to us at large than in the Tower of London*4. Once we know his game we can use him to our advantage.’
‘I am afraid that’s rather beyond me, sir,’ confessed Biggles, ‘but I’ve done what I could, and that is the end of it as far as I am concerned. May I now continue my leave?’
‘Not so fast—not so fast,’ replied the General quickly. ‘Who said you had finished? This may be only the beginning. Pure chance seems to have placed a card in or hands that we may not be able to use without you, and I should like to give the matter a little consideration before reaching a final decision. Help yourself to cigarettes; I shan’t keep you long.’ He gathered up some papers on which he had been making notes and left the room.
Nearly an hour elapsed, however, before he returned, a period that left Biggles plenty of time to ruminate on the position—an unlucky one from his point of view—in which he found himself.
The General’s face was grave when he returned and sat down at his desk, and he eyed Biggles speculatively. ‘Now, Bigglesworth,’ he commenced, ‘I am going to have a very serious talk with you, and I want you to listen carefully. While I have been away I have examined the situation from every possible angle. I believe that Broglace’s next move will be to make a definite offer to you, provided you do not give him cause for alarm. If our assumption is correct, he will suggest tentatively that you work for him, which means, of course, for Germany; I would like you to accept that offer.’
‘Accept it?’ cried Biggles incredulously.
The General nodded slowly. ‘In that way we could take full advantage of an opportunity that seldom presents itself.’
Biggles thought swiftly. ‘What you mean, sir, is that you would like me to become a German spy, working for the British,’ he said bluntly.
The General looked rather uncomfortable. ‘Without mincing matters, that is precisely what I do mean,’ he said gravely. ‘Obviously, I cannot detail you for such work, but it is hardly necessary for me to remind you that it is the duty of every Englishman to do his best for his side whatever sacrifice it may involve. That is why I am asking you to volunteer for what may prove a very difficult and dangerous task. I have looked up your record, and you appear to be unusually well qualified for it, otherwise I would not contemplate the project seriously for one moment. Major Raymond, the Intelligence Officer attached to your Wing in France, speaks highly of your ability in this particular class of work; you have helped him on more than one occasion. Frankly, to handle an affair of this sort with any hope of success would be beyond the ability of the average officer. Still, the final decision must be left to you, and I should fail both in my duty and in fairness to you if I tried to minimize the risks. One blunder, one slip, one moment’s carelessness—but there, I think you appreciate that, so there is no need for me to dwell on it. Well, how do you feel about it?’
Biggles thought for a moment or two. ‘To pretend that I view the thing with favour would be sheer hypocrisy,’ he said rather bitterly, ‘but as you have been good enough to point out my obvious path of duty, I cannot very well refuse, sir.’
The General flushed slightly. ‘I quite understand how you feel,’ he said in a kindly tone, ‘but I knew you would not refuse. Now let us examine the contingencies that are likely to arise, so that we shall know how to act when they do . . .’
Chapter 2
Algy gets a Shock
I
Lieutenant Algernon Lacy, of 266 Squadron, stationed at Maranique, in France, acting flight-commander in the absence of Biggles, his friend and flying partner, landed his Sopwith Camel*1 more carefully than usual, and taxied slowly towards the sheds, keeping a watchful eye on a shattered centre section strut as he did so. On reaching the tarmac he switched off his engine, climbed stiffly to the ground, and walked towards the Squadron Office to make out his combat report. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself, for he had just scored his third victory since Biggles had departed on leave.
He pushed open the door of the flimsy weatherboard building, but seeing Major Mullen, his C.O.*2 in earnest conversation with ‘Wat’ Tyler, the Recording Officer, would have withdrawn had not the C.O. called him back.
‘All right, Lacey, come in,’ he said. ‘I was waiting to have a word with you, although I am afraid it is bad news.’
Algy paused in the act of pulling off his gauntlets and looked at the Major with a puzzled frown. ‘Bad news?’ he repeated, and then, as a ghastly thought struck him, ‘Don’t tell me Biggles has crashed,’ he added quickly.
‘Oh, no; nothing like that. You’ve been posted away.’
‘Posted!’
‘To Headquarters Middle East—in Cairo.’
Algy stared uncomprehendingly. ‘Posted to Middle East,’ he repeated again, foolishly. ‘But what have I done?’
‘Nothing, as far as I am aware. I can only tell you that this posting has not come from Wing Headquarters, or even General Headquarters in France. It has come direct from the Air Board.’
‘But why?’
‘I am sorry, Lacey, particularly as I hate losing a good officer, but it is time you knew that the Air Board is not in the habit of explaining or making excuses for its actions. You are posted with effect from to-day, and you are to catch the 7.10 train to Paris to-night. You will have to take a taxi across Paris in order to catch the 11.10 from the Gare de Lyon to Marseilles, where you will report to the Embarkation Officer at Quay 17. Your movement Order is ready. That’s all. I’ll see you again before you go.’
Algy sat down suddenly, and, as a man in a dream, watched the C.O. leave the office. Then, as the grim truth slowly penetrated his stunned brain, he turned to Wat in a cold fury. ‘So that’s all the thanks—’ he began, but the Recording Officer cut him short.
‘It’s no use storming,’ he said crisply.
‘Wait till Biggles gets back; he’ll have something to say about it.’
‘Biggles isn’t coming back.’
Algy blinked. ‘Not coming back! Suffering rattle-snakes! What’s happened? Has the Air Board gone balmy?’
‘Possibly. I can only tell you that Biggles is posted to H.E.’
‘Home Establishment,’ sneered Algy. ‘My gosh! that proves it. Fancy posting a man like Biggles to H.E. He’ll set ’em alight, I’ll warrant, and serve them right, too. Does the Air Board imagine that fighters like Biggles grow on gooseberry bushes? Well,’ he rose despondently and turned towards the door, ‘that’s the end of this blinking war as far as I am concerned. I’ve no further interest.’
Wat eyed him sympathetically. ‘It’s no use going on like that, laddie,’ he said quietly. ‘That sort of talk won’t get you anywhere. You do your job and put up a good show, and maybe you’ll be able to wangle a posting back to 266. We shall miss you, and Biggles—I need hardly tell you that. Oh! by the way, I’ll tell you something else, although you’re not supposed to know.’
‘Go ahead; you can’t shock me any more.’
‘You’ll have a travelling companion, some one you know.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Major Raymond of Wing Headquarters. He’s also been posted to Headquarters Middle East.’
‘Good! I shall be able to tell him what I think of the Air B
oard.’
‘And finish under close arrest. Don’t be a fool, Algy. We’re at war, and no doubt the Air Board knows what it’s doing.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ agreed Algy sarcastically, as he picked up his gauntlets and left the office.
II
Ten days later, tired and travel-stained, he stepped out of a service tender at Kantara, Palestine, the aerodrome to which he had been sent on arrival in Egypt. No explanation for this further move had been asked of given; he had accepted his instructions moodily, and without interest. Kantara, Almaza, Heliopolis, Ismailia, Khartoum, or Aden, it was all the same as far as he was concerned—at least, so he had told Major Raymond when they had parted company outside Middle East Headquarters in Cairo. Where Raymond had gone Algy did not know, for he had not seen him since.
‘Take my kit to the Mess Secretary’s office until I fix up my quarters,’ he told the driver, and then swung round on his heel as he heard his name called. Major Raymond, in khaki drill uniform, was walking briskly towards him.
‘Hello, Lacey,’ he cried cheerily, ‘so we meet again.’
‘Hello, sir,’ replied Algy in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Palestine, too. I’m feeling very homesick, so it’s a treat to see some one I know. Why couldn’t they have sent us along together, I wonder?’
‘Never wonder at anything in the service, Lacey,’ smiled the Major. ‘Remember that there’s usually a method in its madness. I had to attend an important conference after I left you in Cairo, but I got here first because I flew up—or rather, was flown up. Are you very tired?’
‘Not particularly, sir. Why?’
‘Because I want a word with you in private. I also want you to meet somebody; it is rather urgent, so I would like to get it over right away.’
‘Good enough, sir,’ returned Algy shortly.
The Major led the way to a large square tent that stood a little apart from the rest. ‘This is my headquarters,’ he explained, with a curious expression on his face, as he swung aside the canvas flap that served as a door.
The tent was furnished as an office, with a large desk, telephone, and filing cabinets, but Algy noticed none of these things. He was staring at a man dressed in flying overalls who rose from a long cane chair and walked quickly towards him, laughing at his thunderstruck expression.
‘I don’t think an introduction is necessary,’ observed Major Raymond, with a chuckle.
Algy’s jaw had sagged foolishly and his lips moved as if he was trying to speak, but no words came. ‘Biggles,’ he managed to blurt out at last. ‘Why the—what the dickens—oh, Great Scott, this has got me beaten to a frazzle.’
‘Let’s sit down; it’s too hot to stand,’ suggested the Major. ‘And now let us try to work out what has happened, and why we are here,’ he went on, when they were all comfortably settled. ‘I’m by no means clear about it, so the sooner we all know the real position the better. You probably know more than anybody, Bigglesworth, so you had better do the talking.’
Biggles smiled rather wanly as he leaned back in his chair and unfastened his overalls, exposing the R.F.C. tunic he wore underneath. ‘If you’ll listen I’ll tell you all I know,’ he said quietly.
Briefly, he told them of his encounter with Broglace, and his subsequent conferences at the Air Board. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘I realized that the General was quite right when he said that it was up to every one to do his best. I hated and loathed the idea, but what could I do? In the end I told him that I would go on with the business on the understanding that no one knew except himself and two persons I should name, the idea being that those two persons should act as liaison officers with me. I have only one life to lose, and I want to hang on to it as long as I can, so I didn’t feel inclined to make my reports through strangers, even though they were officers of the British Intelligence Service. Sooner or later a counter-spy would get hold of the tale, and then the balloon would go up as far as I was concerned.
‘Mind you, the question of going to Egypt or Palestine hadn’t been raised then; that came later. Anyway, I agreed to go on with the thing if I could work with two people I knew I could trust absolutely. The General agreed, and when I named you he was quite pleased, because, as he said, apart from the question of trust, you, Algy, would be valuable because you could fly, and you, sir, because you were already on the Intelligence Staff. Now you know why you were posted.
‘The next move came when I saw Broglace that evening. When he realized that I was ready to talk business he put his cards on the table and made me an offer of high wages if I would join the German Secret Service, and that showed me just where I stood. I said I’d think it over, went back to the General, and asked him what I was to do about it. He told me to accept, but if possible get to this part of the world, where the war was going to pieces as far as we were concerned, because the place was rotten with German spies—due chiefly to the activities of a Hun named El Shereef. Our people only know him by his Arab name; they very badly want to get a slant on him, and that was to be my job. They suggested that when I got here—if I did—I should get in touch with our leading Intelligence Agent, Major Sterne. He’s a free-lance, and as far as I can make out tears about the desert on a camel, or on horseback, pulling the wires through Arab chiefs and tribesmen. El Shereef and Sterne are the two big noises out here, apparently, and each has been trying to get at the other’s throat for months.
‘I said I’d try to get out here but would prefer to play a lone hand; I didn’t like the idea of working under anybody, not even Major Sterne, although they say he’s brilliant. Well, to make a long story short, I saw Broglace and told him I was prepared to fall in line with him. He wanted me to go to Belgium, but I shot him a line about being well known, and sooner or later was bound to bump into somebody who knew me. He quite saw the wisdom of my protest, and asked me to which other theatre of war I would prefer to go. I told him Palestine, and that was that.’
‘But how on earth did you get out here?’ asked Algy curiously.
‘Ah, that would make a story in itself,’ replied Biggles mysteriously. ‘Broglace gave me a ring, a signet ring with a hinged flap that covered a peculiar device, and told me it would work like an oracle. And he was right. It did. I’d flown home on leave, as you know, so I went and got my machine, and instead of flying to France, went straight to Brussels. Broglace thought I’d stolen it—but that’s by the way. It was a sticky trip, believe me, with Huns trying to shoot me down all the way, but I got there. As soon as I landed I was taken prisoner, but I flashed my ring and it acted like a charm. You should have seen the Huns bowing and scraping round me. I was pushed into a train for Berlin, where I had to go through a very dickens of a cross-examination from a kind of tribunal. It put the wind up me properly, and I don’t mind admitting it. Then I was sent on to Jerusalem, where I reported to the Intelligence people, who posted me to Zabala under Count von Faubourg, who is O.C.*3 of the German Secret Service on this particular sector of the front.
‘I got there two days ago, and was sent out on a reconnaisance this morning to get my general bearings.’
‘But how on earth did you manage to land on our side of the lines in a Hun machine?’ asked Algy in amazement.
‘I didn’t say anything about a Hun machine. I’m flying a British machine, a Bristol Fighter*4. The Huns have two of our machines, a two-seater—the Bristol—and a Sopwith ‘Pup’. They must have forced-landed over the wrong side of the lines at some time or other, and been repaired. Anyway, I slipped over right away to try to get in touch with you in order that we could make some sort of plan, and fix a rendezvous where we could meet when I have anything to report. I fancy the Boche*5 idea is that I shall land over here and take back any information I pick up. That’s why I’m still wearing a British uniform, although I have a German one as well.
‘I daren’t stay very long, or they may wonder what I’m up to. While I’ve been waiting I’ve jotted down some suggestions on a sheet of paper; I�
�d like you both to read them, memorize them, and then destroy it. Algy, I imagine you will be exempt from ordinary duty; the Major will be able to arrange all that. As a temporary measure I have decided on the oasis of Abba Sud as an emergency meeting-place. It’s well out in the desert, a good way from either British or German forces, so it should be safe. Here it is.’
He crossed over to a large wall-map that hung on the side of the tent, and laid his finger on a small circle that bore the name Abba Sud. ‘I want you to hang round there as often as you can, and watch for me,’ he went on. ‘I may be flying a British machine, or a German, and in either case I will try to fire a red Very*6 light to let you know it’s me. Then we’ll land, talk things over, and you can report to Major Raymond. Now I must go. We’re in touch, and that’s a load off my mind. We shall have to settle details later to suit any conditions that may arise; it’s all been such a rush that I haven’t been able to sort the thing out properly yet.’
He rose to his feet, fastened his overalls, and held out his hand. ‘Good-bye for the present, sir. Cheerio, Algy.’
Algy sprang up in a mild panic. ‘But you’re not going back—to land behind the Hun Lines?’ he cried aghast.
‘Of course I am.’
Algy turned a trifle pale and shook his head. ‘For God’s sake be careful,’ he whispered tersely. ‘They’ll shoot you like a dog if they spot what you’re doing.’
‘I know it,’ returned Biggles calmly, ‘so the thing is not to get caught. You keep your end up and it will pan out all right. Remember one thing above everything. Trust nobody. The spy system on this front is the best in the world, and if one whisper gets out about me, even in the Officers’ Mess here, I’m sunk. Cheerio!’ With a final wave of his hand he left them.
As he walked swiftly towards the aerodrome where he had left his machine he paused in his stride to admire a beautifully mounted Arab who swept past him, galloping towards the camp. The Arab did not even glance in his direction, and Biggles thought he had never seen a finer example of wild humanity.
