by Glenn Meade
“I’m impressed,” Halder said, glancing at the result. “So, I lead you in through the passageway and you take your chances?”
“Is there any other option?”
“You could always forget about the whole stupid thing.”
She looked at him solemnly, shook her head. “I can’t do that, Jack. And now you know the reasons why.”
“You can’t really believe in all that Nazi nonsense? The thousand-year Reich, one people, one Führer?”
She hesitated, a shadow crossed her face, emotion welling in the corners of her eyes.
“What I believe in is really of no consequence. Except I have a family rotting in the Gestapo’s cellars, and I don’t want them to die there. And a country that’s being bombed to ruins night and day. If it doesn’t stop soon, there’ll be nothing left for anyone, nothing fit for decent people.”
“You poor, stupid fool. Don’t you see? It may be a deadly game we’re playing here, but it’s still only a game. Nothing you do will make the slightest bit of difference. The Allies will still win the war.”
Rachel didn’t reply, and as Weaver sat there, ashen-faced, listening to it all, totally puzzled, he looked at Halder. “You mentioned a passageway,” he said hoarsely. “What did you mean?”
“I’m afraid you’re way behind in the game, Harry. There’s a fatal weakness in your president’s defenses.”
Halder explained about the tunnel, and Weaver couldn’t control his anger as he stared at Rachel, his voice full of emotion, almost savage. “Killing Roosevelt isn’t going to end this war, it’s only going to make it worse. There’s not an American soldier alive who wouldn’t feel outraged and want revenge. They’d want to see Germany on its knees. And they’d keep on fighting for as long as it took, and they’d never give up. Not till hell freezes over.”
“All of which changes nothing, Harry, I’m afraid,” Rachel said to him. “I still have a mission to complete. As for you and your friend, you won’t be harmed, not so long as you do as you’re told. You’ll be tied up and left somewhere where you’ll be in no danger of being discovered, until long after this is over. And now, Jack, I really think it’s time we left. Harry may be bluffing, but if he’s not, we might have company soon.”
“There’s one slight problem.”
“What?”
“I’m not going with you.”
Rachel leveled the gun. Halder said with resignation, his face very calm, “Shoot me if you have to, but the answer’s still no. It stops here. I’ve had my bellyful of death and destruction. I’ve played my part and come to the end of the tracks.”
“What about your son?”
Halder struggled to contain his emotions. “I think I accepted I’d never see Pauli again the moment I agreed to go along with this insanity. And the answer’s still the same.”
There was a frightening look of pain on his face as he stared levelly at Rachel Stern. Finally, she said in defeat, “Very well, Jack. Have it your way.”
The door opened and Deacon came back, Kleist behind him. “The signal’s been acknowledged.”
“And the woman?”
“In the cellar, tied securely,” Kleist answered. He carried Helen Kane’s uniform on his arm. “I thought this might come in useful.”
To Weaver’s horror, he held up her ID, grinning broadly. “And you’ll never believe what I found in her pocket. A special pass for the compound.”
As Rachel studied the pass, Deacon eagerly crossed the room, tugged at Weaver’s tunic pocket, and removed his ID wallet. “They’re both carrying special passes. It seems Lady Luck might be on our side after all.”
Weaver was totally dismayed. Halder said to Deacon, “So, you knew the truth of it all along.”
“Kleist too, obviously. A sad state of affairs when one German can’t completely trust another, but there you have it, Major.”
“Don’t you think there’s been enough killing, Deacon? The war’s over for Germany, even the dogs in the bazaar know that. You’ll be wasting your lives continuing with this.”
Deacon ignored him, turned to Rachel. “Are we ready?”
“I’m afraid the major’s not coming. It’s just you and me.”
Deacon scowled, nodded at the gun in her hand. “Can’t you change his mind?”
“It’s pointless. We’ll have to take our chances alone.”
Deacon regarded Halder with contempt. “Such a pity you chose to be a traitor. You’ve probably missed your chance to be part of history.” He looked back at Rachel. “What do you want me to do with him?”
“He still gets on the plane. Even if we don’t.”
Deacon didn’t argue. “Very well. And the other one?”
She gave Weaver a lingering look. “You’ll have to keep him and the woman safely out of the way until long after we’ve gone.”
Kleist had a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. “Better to kill them all, here and now.”
She turned on him, fiercely. “None of them are to be harmed, that’s an order. You’ll do as I say.” She handed him the M3 machine pistol. “Take this. Use it—but only if you have to. And I mean that, Kleist.”
Kleist tucked his pistol into his waistband and took the machine pistol sullenly, as Rachel shot Weaver and Halder a meaningful look. “I just hope you’ll both take the chance I’ve offered you. Play it correctly, and you’ll live.”
Deacon said, “Seeing as the major’s deserted us, I suggest we take the motorcycle—it’ll be faster. A straight run across the desert to the village of Nazlat as-Saman, like you did earlier.”
Weaver looked at Rachel with sudden vehemence. “You’ll never get near Roosevelt. You’ll be dead before you get ten paces across the lawns.”
There was a strange look on her face, unfathomable pain or remorse, and for a moment her eyes softened. “I’m afraid I’ve crossed the river on this one, Harry, and it’s far too late to turn back. So if you don’t see me again, think of me sometimes.” She looked at Halder. “You too, Jack. Or is that too much to ask?”
There was a long silence. Neither of them replied, and she turned briskly to Deacon, as if she couldn’t bear to see their accusing stares a second longer. “Let’s go.”
She left the room, and as Deacon made to follow her out, he said to Kleist, “Take the boat south as far as Memphis with Hassan, and go by foot to the landing area.” He checked his watch. “Give us until oh three-thirty hours at the latest, the time Captain Rahman’s aircraft is scheduled to land.”
“And if you don’t show by then?”
“You leave without us,” Deacon answered grimly. “You heard what to do about Weaver and his lady friend. The same with Halder.”
“Don’t worry, they’re in safe hands.”
Deacon shot a pointed glance at Kleist and lowered his voice. “I hope not. Personally, I think the woman’s making a grave mistake letting them live. A bad case of sentiment, I’m sure.”
Kleist grinned at him, cradled the machine pistol in his arms. “You’d have given different orders?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
69
* * *
1:40 A.M.
In the Presidential Suite of the Mena House, Agent Jim Griffith heard the telephone jangle like an alarm bell.
He jolted, came wide awake. He’d been resting on one of the couches in the suite’s reception room, and when he reached for the phone he saw his shift leader, Howie Anderson, stretch his arms as he lounged in the chair opposite. “Jeez, ain’t there no rest for the wicked?”
“Not if they happen to work for the Secret Service.” Griffith smiled and spoke into the receiver. “Watch number one. Griffith.”
He listened, then said, “Yes, sir, got it,” and replaced the receiver, as Anderson yawned and looked at his wristwatch. “What’s up?”
“Two visitors on their way from the lobby. Ambassador Kirk and General George Clayton. They want to see the Chief.”
“At this hour?” Anderson rubbed his eyes, already knew
that both men’s names were on the special visitor list, and that they would have been cleared by the outer perimeter, but he checked the clipboard just the same. “Must be darned important. You want to wake him?”
“Sure.” Griffith was about to move towards the short corridor that led to the president’s bedroom when the knock came from the guard outside.
“Seems like the Chief’s guests are in one heck of a hurry,” remarked Anderson, and he picked up the Thompson submachine gun lying propped beside the door, readying the drum magazine in the crook of his arm. “They must have taken the stairs five at a time.”
Griffith kept his hand on the butt of his holstered Smith & Wesson .38, crossed the room, knocked back, and asked the guard outside for the password. When he received it, he opened the door, Anderson already a couple of steps behind, covering him with the Thompson.
Ambassador Alex Kirk and General George Clayton stood impatiently in the corridor. Griffith scrutinized their security passes. “The president,” said Kirk bluntly.
“He’s still asleep, sir.”
“Then wake him. Quickly.”
MAISON FLEUVE
1:40 A.M.
Hassan came back, and they heard the motorcycle start up outside. Kleist still had the M3 in his hands, a gloating look on his face. “So, you finally got to know the truth, Halder? Though I’m hardly surprised you turned out to be a cowardly traitor. Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Whatever it is, you’d never listen, so go to the Devil.”
Kleist crossed the room, hatred burning like coal in his eyes, and grabbed Halder tightly by the hair. “You and your Prussian kind make me sick. Arrogant, the lot of you. I asked you a question.”
Halder ignored him, said to Weaver, “You’re looking at the animal responsible for murdering those two officers in cold blood at the crash site. As well as butchering a couple of Egyptian policemen.”
The SS man grinned, stared into his face. “You haven’t got the stomach for war, Halder. How they ever put a coward like you in uniform is beyond me.”
“You’re a complete brute, Kleist. I should have shot you when I had the chance.”
Kleist struck him savagely across the face with the butt of the machine pistol, and Halder reeled back, blood on his lips.
“A little foretaste of what’s to come, the down payment on an old score.” Kleist’s face split into a tight grin. “And I must say, I’m going to enjoy settling the rest of it.”
Outside, they heard the motorcycle rev up and drive away. Kleist looked at Halder maliciously. “If you think I’m taking you back on the plane, you’ve got another thing coming. Even if those two manage to finish the business, something tells me they’ll never get out alive. Which means you’re dead.”
His boot came up, lashed into Halder’s groin, and he crumpled to the floor. Weaver moved to help him up, but Kleist shoved the machine pistol in his face. “Don’t tempt me, American. Besides, I believe someone else has a bone to pick.”
Hassan stepped forward. The curved knife appeared in his hand, and there was a look of intense pleasure in his eyes. “The evil day has finally arrived. Get ready to say your prayers.”
Kleist put a hand on his arm. “Not here. I’ve something much more interesting in mind. Fetch the woman and get her onto the boat.” He touched the barrel of the M3 to Halder’s forehead, smirked. “We’ll give the Nile crocodiles something to chew over, and get rid of the major and his friends on the river.”
1:45 A.M.
Neumann had made excellent time, much better than he had anticipated, the strong southeasterly winds at their backs all the way. They were at five thousand meters, and there was very little cloud. The second Dakota had moved slightly ahead of them, taking the lead, and they could make out its faint outline no more than a mile away. In the darkened cockpit, lit only by the dim glow of the instrument panel and the pale moonlight, Skorzeny was getting impatient.
“How much longer?”
“If the winds stay in our favor, no more than fifteen minutes to the Egyptian coast. Less than an hour to our target airfield—assuming, that is, we don’t come across any enemy aircraft that may have other ideas.” Neumann glanced round. “This business of keeping our altitude extremely low approaching Cairo, it’s going to be tricky, you know?”
Skorzeny put a hand on his shoulder, grinned. “Neumann, I have every faith in you.”
At that precise moment, they were startled by a sudden blaze of tracer fire arcing through the night sky, its target the Dakota ahead of them. From nowhere, two Tomahawk fighters with RAF markings rocketed out of the darkness from the east, cannons blazing.
“Oh, no!” muttered Neumann. “We’ve got company.”
Instinctively, he pulled up sharply, and the Dakota in front tried to do the same, as one of the Tomahawks attacked its port side with withering cannon fire. The Dakota took a hit, the port wing almost disintegrating in the hail of lead, and the aircraft exploded like a massive firework, its flaming debris plunging towards the sea.
“Oh, my God. The poor souls!”
“Neumann, get us out of here,” Skorzeny roared above the engine noise.
“It’s pointless,” Neumann answered frantically. “The Tomahawks have us for speed.”
“Do something, man!” Skorzeny screamed.
Neumann pushed the column hard forward, and the Dakota nosed down sharply, speeding towards the sea below at a frightening rate of knots. Sweat on his face, Neumann said, “Better hold tight, Colonel. We’re in for a rough ride.”
MENA HOUSE
1:45 A.M.
The suite had a small lounge area for guests, complete with a couple of leather couches and a coffee table, the white-painted walls adorned with Arabic prints and wood carvings. As the ambassador and the general waited anxiously, Griffith wheeled in Roosevelt. He wore a dressing gown, his silver hair was tousled, and he looked the worse for having been woken. But there was no sign of bad temper, just a wry smile. “I’m hoping you gentlemen have a good reason for this. You know how an old man like me needs his sleep.”
“We have, sir,” Kirk answered, and told him the news.
“So,” Roosevelt said flatly, no triumph in his voice. “It’s over. Berlin tried and failed.”
“I’m afraid it’s not completely over yet, Mr. President,” Clayton explained. “Three of the Germans escaped and they’re on the run. But they haven’t a chance getting anywhere near the hotel. Not that it’s likely they’ll try and continue with their mission with a posse after them, every barracks alerted, and a ring of steel around the compound, but we’re doubling the patrols to make absolutely certain.”
“That’s reassuring to hear, General. I guess if over a thousand troops can’t protect me, no one can.”
“There’s really no threat, sir. We’ve put every available fighter aircraft we’ve got in North Africa on alert, and air patrols are scouring the skies as we speak. The extra measures are purely a precaution. I’m pretty confident we’ll have those Krauts rounded up pretty soon.”
“But no doubt there were casualties?”
“Half a dozen troops wounded, and six dead, so far as we know. Two of our own men, and four others. It could have been a lot worse.”
Roosevelt sighed heavily. “The sooner this lousy war is over, the better.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess there’s nothing more to be said. Except I owe you and your men a debt of gratitude, General.”
Clayton saluted. “I can assure you you’re in safe hands, Mr. President.”
“Of that, I’ve no doubt. And now, I’d better let you both get back to whatever it is you have to do. Gentlemen, I’ll bid you good morning.”
1:49 A.M.
In the Dakota, the tension was frightening. Neumann kept the column pushed hard forward as they continued their rapid descent. He hadn’t the faintest belief that he could shake off the high-speed Tomahawks, and knew with certainty that it was all over, nothing but primitive animal instinct keeping him i
n there, fighting against the odds.
Although he couldn’t see the Tomahawks behind him, their tracer fire streaked past on the left and right as the attacking aircraft followed him down all the way, the Dakota jolting fiercely with the mounting speed, the vibrations unbearable, the engines screaming in protest.
Neumann shot a glance at his altimeter; the hands were spinning down fast, the Dakota plunging headlong towards the sea, and he could barely read the instrument with the vibration.
A thousand meters.
“We’d better pull up soon, sir!” the copilot shouted anxiously. “We won’t be able to break out of our dive!”
“Wait!” screamed Neumann.
Eight hundred.
Five hundred.
“Sir! We’ll never make it!”
The Tomahawks were still on his tail, tracers hurtling past, raking into the sea directly ahead of him. Neumann chose his moment and pulled back hard on the column and the Dakota lifted, sluggishly at first, then swooping up, just barely clearing the water. He was hoping that one or both Tomahawks, faster machines, wouldn’t be able to pull up in time and would crash into the sea, but he was out of luck, because within seconds of leveling out the tracers started hammering at him again. “I’m afraid that’s it,” he said to Skorzeny in defeat. “We’re finished.”
“More enemy aircraft, sir! Dead ahead!” the copilot interrupted.
Neumann felt his stomach sink. Sure enough, the dark figures of three aircraft were hurtling towards them, coming in low over the sea. Their cannons erupted, spewing flame, and Neumann instinctively moved to shield his face.
“They’re ours!” the copilot screamed with joy. “One-oh-nines!”
Neumann looked again. They were Messerschmitt 109s all right, and they weren’t firing at him, but at the Tomahawks. The 109s shot past, one above him, and one each to port and starboard. They’d make short work of the Tomahawks, of that Neumann was certain. “Thank heaven for that,” he breathed. “It was a close thing—I’m still bloody shaking.”
