Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  “They said there was a launch?” she began, and in the same moment Mitch pointed to their right.

  “There.”

  Sure enough, there was a wooden-hulled speedboat flying what looked like an official pennant, a young man in dazzling white waving to them from the stern. Alma waved back, and followed him decorously out of the lane. This part of the lake was more crowded; she saw a tri-motor biplane in Imperial Airways livery snugged to a mooring close to the terminals ashore, and a smaller seaplane taxied past them toward the buoyed lane. She felt the air change as Tiny opened the side hatch, getting ready to tie them to their own mooring point. The speedboat slowed, the man in the stern pointing to a brightly-painted buoy, and then circled the mooring for good measure. Alma waved again, and kicked the rudder, bringing them carefully alongside. There was a clang as the buoy hit the hull, and then Tiny shouted, “Got it! I’m putting the fenders out now.”

  “Let’s shut her down, Lewis,” Alma said, too tired to stand on proper procedure, and Mitch grinned.

  “So here we are. Welcome to Alexandria.”

  Jerry leaned on his cane, squinting into the brilliant morning sun. It was still relatively cool on the dock, and the bright-red Catalina swung at her mooring, balanced on her hull and the floats that folded down from the ends of her wings. Yes, there was the water taxi, pulling alongside the hull, and even at this distance he could recognize Mitch’s familiar figure handing down their meager baggage. There was Lewis, and then two strangers — one was probably the extra crewman, but he couldn’t think who the second man would be. Alma climbed out last, drawing the hatch closed behind her, and the taxi pulled away from the mooring, beginning its long arc back to the terminals and the customs inspection. Jerry allowed himself a long sigh: he hadn’t doubted they’d come, but he also hadn’t realized just how worried he’d been, between the intricacies of the dig and Iskinder’s situation. But they were here, and safe, and together the Aedificatorii Templi would figure out what to do about Iskinder and the Emperor’s guns.

  He made his way back along the dock, going slowly both because of his leg and to give the others time to get through Customs. He’d gotten them rooms at a perfectly respectable hotel on the Corniche, one that housed any number of pilots and crew from the various lines that flew the African routes; he’d take them there, and then bring them back to his own flat to discuss what should be done.

  The terminal was still cool and relatively dark, sun splashing in through the arches that opened onto the dock. The customs barrier was at the far end of the hall, a set of tables manned by men in neat uniforms, their English and their manners equally faultless. At this hour, there was little traffic: the flying boat to Port Bell had left at dawn, the morning flight to Cairo had left an hour ago, and nothing was due in until later in the afternoon. There was no line, and the inspectors were closing suitcases and waving them through the flimsy barrier by the time Jerry approached. Alma lifted a hand in greeting, but her attention was on a thin-faced man Jerry had never seen before.

  “— fulfilled our agreement,” she was saying, “and from here on out — your business is up to you.”

  “I don’t suppose I could hire you,” the stranger said, with a wry smile, and Alma shook her head firmly.

  “Sorry. We already have a charter.”

  Jerry stopped beside her, resting his weight on his cane. “Hello, Al.”

  “Hello, Jerry,” she answered, turning a pointed shoulder toward the stranger, who tipped his hat and turned away. Jerry clasped hands with Mitch and then with Lewis, waiting until he was sure the stranger was out of earshot to ask the obvious question.

  “Who was that?”

  “Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen,” Alma answered, giving every syllable its due. “He’s a Swede.”

  “He threatened to rat us out if we didn’t bring him with us,” Lewis said. “But Al shut that down.”

  “He’s here,” Jerry said, looking from one to the other, and Alma shrugged.

  “He’s been flying for the Red Cross in Ethiopia. He says he came to Palermo to buy a plane, but the seller didn’t show, and he’s trying to get back to Africa.”

  “He’s also the German air minister’s nephew,” Mitch said, hoisting his duffle onto one shoulder. “Which — I don’t know, it doesn’t make me trust the man.”

  “Our friend may know him,” Jerry said, reluctant even now to speak Iskinder’s name out loud. “Or know of him, anyway.”

  “That’s true,” Alma said. “But regardless, I don’t want him getting too close to us right now. Not until we’ve figured out how to do whatever it is you needed.”

  Jerry nodded. “I’ve gotten you rooms at the Metropole — it’s very nice — so if you want we can drop your bags there and then carry on.”

  The very tall young man — Tiny Foster, Jerry remembered — groaned aloud, and then blushed as the others looked at him.

  “It was a long flight,” Alma said. She smiled at Jerry. “Let’s get checked in and then we’ll see.”

  The Metropole was an older building but still nice, the facade well-maintained and the interior renovated in the mid-twenties. Jerry had reserved three adjoining rooms overlooking the courtyard, and they left their bags with a pair of bellhops and rode the polished-brass cage elevator to the fourth floor. The bellhops were waiting with their modest luggage, and Mitch reached into his pocket, then stopped abruptly. Of course they hadn’t had time to change any money, Jerry thought, and reached into his own pocket for the tip. The bellhops salaamed and backed away, closing the door behind them, and Mitch gave the nearest bed a longing look.

  “We flew straight through from the closing ball,” Alma said. “We’re a little tired.”

  Tiny Foster yawned and failed to smother it, blushing again to the roots of his hair.

  “I know,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry. But this is urgent. I think it would be better if you talked to Iskinder now and then slept.”

  Alma and Lewis exchanged glances, and Alma nodded. “All right. Tiny, you stay here and get some rest. One of us needs to be in decent shape later.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young man said, meekly enough, and Jerry led them back downstairs to catch a cab.

  They piled in together, Jerry in the front seat to direct the cab driver, the others in the back with Alma wedged in the middle. There was no time for sight-seeing, much as Jerry would have liked to show them the city; instead, they took the quickest route, through undistinguished modern buildings, and pulled up at last outside the rented flat. Jerry paid the driver, and ushered them upstairs, pretending not to hear Mitch grumbling about needing to change money.

  “We’ll get to that,” Alma said. “For now —”

  She stopped abruptly as the door opened, letting them into the crowded sitting room. Iskinder looked up from a game of solitaire — not winning, Jerry saw, and determinedly not cheating, either — and a smile spread across his face.

  “Alma, my dear.”

  “Iskinder.” They embraced, and then he and Mitch clasped hands. Alma cleared her throat. “And this is my husband, Lewis. This is Iskinder, who — well, I’ve told you about him.”

  Lewis nodded, and held out his hand in turn. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Iskinder, please.” Iskinder took a deep breath, and looked at Jerry. “Willi is at the dig, but he said you should send for him if you needed anything.”

  “I think we need to talk first,” Jerry said frankly. “Because I’m damned if I know whether this idea is going to work at all.”

  “Just give it to me straight,” Alma said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “You’ve heard that the Italians have invaded Ethiopia,” Iskinder said, and she nodded.

  “Yes. In fact — but that can wait. Go on.”

  “The emperor sent me to buy guns for our army. A thousand machine guns and the ammunition. Transport had been arranged, but the pilot —” Iskinder shrugged, his expression determinedly casual. “He refuses to fly int
o a war zone. He is quite happy to help move the guns to anyone else I can find to fly them, but he doesn’t want to be a casualty in someone else’s war. And that, I’m afraid, is what I’m asking you to risk.”

  “Machine guns and ammo,” Alma repeated. “Do you know the weight?”

  “It’s on the papers.” For the first time, Iskinder looked as tired as she did, and Jerry put a hand on his shoulder. “Ten thousand pounds? Twelve thousand? I don’t remember.”

  “That’s within our limits,” Alma said. “All right. Where do you want to go?”

  “You can’t — Alma, I am serious when I say that there is real fighting. This isn’t just skirmishes, it’s a war. You need to consider this very carefully.”

  “I am. I will.” Alma looked at Mitch and then at Lewis, visibly gathering their approval. “And I promise you, we will take every precaution and we’ll expect you to help us do this as safely as we can. But this is a thing we can do.” She grinned. “We will, of course, charge a suitable haulage fee.”

  Iskinder gave a shaky laugh. “That, at least, I can promise.”

  “Also we’ll need your help arranging fuel,” Alma said. “But this — you called us here, you’re not going to get rid of us that easily.”

  “I should have known,” Iskinder said. “Jerry said — thank you, Alma. I begin to think we may salvage something out of this disaster.”

  Jerry retreated to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, half listening to the voices in the other room. Iskinder was telling them the story of his mission, the others listening in attentive silence, and Jerry collected enough cups to go around. He brought them out into the sitting room, and Lewis rose silently to take them, then followed him back to the kitchen. Jerry handed him sugar and the last bottle of milk, grateful for the help, and then hovered in the doorway, half his attention on the stove to keep the coffee from boiling over.

  “I think we can do this,” Alma was saying. A yawn caught her off guard, and she rubbed her eyes. “I still need exact weights, but — so far I’m not seeing anything to stop us.”

  “The plan was to fly to one of our bases near the capital,” Iskinder said, “but with a flying boat, I think we’d be better landing on Lake Tana. Bahir Dar has a regular airport, with beacons and a tower. Or if we land on the northern side of the lake, we’re in easy reach of convoys from Gondar, and they can carry the guns on to the front.”

  “Fuel for getting home?” Mitch asked. ”I assume the airfield will have it, but what about if we go north?.”

  “It would have to be brought from Gondar,” Iskinder answered. “I should be able to arrange that.”

  “That’s the one crucial thing,” Alma said. “We can get you there, but I want to be sure we can get back out again.”

  Iskinder nodded. “I will send a cable.”

  Jerry raised an eyebrow, and Iskinder gave a sheepish smile.

  “All right, I will write a cable and Jerry will send it for me. Is that better?”

  “Safer, certainly,” Jerry said.

  “Our diplomatic codes aren’t much different from the commercial ones,” Iskinder said. “But at least we have a code.”

  “Is that secure enough?” Lewis asked.

  Iskinder shrugged. “I’m afraid it will have to be.”

  “As long as nobody knows too much about this mission of yours, it ought to be ok,” Mitch said.

  “Ah. As I said, I was hunted in Cairo, but I believe I have given them the slip.” Iskinder shrugged. “That’s the best I can say. I warned you, this is a real war now.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Alma said. “As long as you can get the fuel there.”

  The coffee was ready, and Jerry ducked back into the kitchen. Before he could figure out how to manage the heavy pot, Lewis had joined him.

  “Let me get that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lewis hesitated. “I don’t know a damn thing about Ethiopia,” he said, softly. “I know he’s your friend, but — do they even have aviation fuel on this lake whatever?”

  “There are commercial flights into Addis Ababa every week,” Jerry said. “And they’ve got an air force of sorts. Iskinder says the emperor has been spending money on air transport because the roads are so bad.”

  Lewis nodded. “Ok. No offense meant. I just don’t know.”

  “None taken,” Jerry said, and followed him back into the sitting room.

  Lewis poured the coffee and they settled back into their chairs. Alma still looked desperately tired, and as Jerry watched she stifled another yawn.

  “Probably the first thing we need to do is sleep,” she said, ruefully. “How crucial is the timing, Iskinder?”

  He made a face. “The guns should have been with the army by now. The need is urgent.”

  “All right. We’ll try to do this as soon as possible.” Alma took a long swallow of her coffee. “How soon can your man get us the goods?”

  “He wants them off his hands,” Iskinder said. “As soon as he possibly can, I imagine. Though today is New Year’s, and he’ll have trouble getting stevedores today.”

  “We can’t load today anyway,” Mitch said. “We’re at a mooring, and quite frankly I’m dead on my feet. I don’t want to even try before tomorrow.”

  Alma nodded. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t contact him today, right?”

  “I expect I can,” Iskinder said. He glanced at Jerry. “I can give you a draft on my bank to cover fuel costs and the dock fees. Though our enemies may be watching the banks.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jerry said.

  “There’s one other thing,” Alma said, and gave a sudden grin. “At least I think there’s only one! It was a hell of thing, Iskinder, we came straight from the closing ball — full evening dress, we changed on the plane. We brought a man with us — don’t worry, he doesn’t know anything about why we’re here except that we had a charter. His name’s von Rosen, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen. Do you know him?”

  Iskinder frowned. “Yes, though not personally? He has a good reputation. He was working with our air force when the Italians attacked, and after that, he was a liaison with the Red Cross.”

  “He said he’d been doing ambulance flights,” Mitch said.

  “That I don’t know,” Iskinder said. “I’ve been on the road a while.”

  “He said he was trying to buy a larger plane at the air show, but the seller didn’t show,” Alma said. “And now he’s trying to get back to Ethiopia. Should we offer him a place?”

  ”Iskinder rubbed his chin. “As far as I know, he’s good and reliable. Let me check when I wire our people.”

  “All right.” Alma yawned again, and Mitch shook his head.

  “Yeah, the coffee’s not touching me, either. We’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Alma said. She looked at Jerry. “If we catch a cab back to the hotel, we can get a nap, then meet you for dinner? All of you?”

  “Me and Willi, maybe,” Jerry said. “I don’t think Iskinder should show himself.”

  “Sadly, no,” Iskinder said. “And I am very tired of this flat — forgive me, Jerry, but I am.”

  “You’ll be out of it soon enough,” Jerry said. He reached for his hat and his cane. “I’ll hail a cab for you.”

  They had to walk to the next crossroad to find a cab, and Jerry packed them into it, making sure the driver understood the destination. The man also spoke a little English, which he was happy to show off, and Jerry slipped Mitch a wad of the local currency. That was something else he’d have to arrange, to change money once the banks opened tomorrow. Everything had been going so slowly, and now suddenly there was no time left. He remembered that feeling from the war, the abrupt switch from patience to frantic activity, and he couldn’t say he liked it. He shook himself, frowning. Willi should be back from the dig by now; they couldn’t change money, not until tomorrow, but the main telegraph offices would be open. Iskinder could send his coded cables, and make contact with his smugg
ler — telephone? Another cable? That was Iskinder’s choice, he told himself, and turned back to toward the flat. The street was busy, but not so crowded that he couldn’t spot someone following him. He took the long way home anyway, stopping blamelessly at the European grocer two blocks from the flat for tea and jam, and was reasonably sure no one was watching.

  Palermo, Italy

  January 1, 1936

  Breakfast was room service as usual, and as usual Merilee was up ahead of the sun. She was on her fourth piece of toast (Merilee refused to eat anything but toast in the morning) and Stasi was nursing her third cup of coffee and a headache when the boys charged in. They immediately started squabbling over whether or not panettone was a proper breakfast food or not, which Stasi refrained from wading into other than to say that everyone could eat what they wanted. This at least mollified Douglas for a while, as he always wanted to eat everything.

  Eventually, Jimmy looked up from his plate. “Where is everyone? Did they go out to the field early for the show?”

  “The show’s over,” Douglas said.

  “There might be private buyers,” Jimmy replied. He cocked his head at Stasi. “Mrs. Sorley, where are they?”

  Stasi took a deep breath. “They’ve gone on a short trip. They’ll be back in a few days.”

  At that Douglas’ eyes grew very round, and Stasi remembered belatedly that this was exactly what their father had said before he took off for good. Hurriedly, she plunged on. “They’ve gone to Africa, darling. An Ethiopian prince asked for their help in combating a terrible menace, so they’ve flown clear across the Mediterranean to Egypt.”

  Jimmy put his fork down with a clatter. “Where are they really?” The irritation in his voice only partially covered real fear.

  Stasi made herself take a long, slow drink of her coffee. “Where do you think, darling? A buyer wanted to take a look at the plane. They’ve taken him on a test flight.”

  Jimmy’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, won’t Mr. Odlum like it if they sell planes?”