Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  “I’m afraid that’s the end of my French, M. Claudet. But I appreciate your being able to accommodate us on such short notice.”

  “Not at all,” Claudet answered. “Believe me, I am relieved to get these goods off my hands. They are, after all, bought and paid for.”

  Mitch suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If Claudet was really that worried about fulfilling his obligations, he’d have flown the guns himself, and none of this would be necessary.

  “I believe you said you could take the full load?”

  “That depends,” Alma answered. “My plane is currently configured for passengers; I’m going to need some help getting those fittings out, and I’ll need a place to store them while we’re en route.”

  “If you’d permit?” Claudet gestured to the hatch, and Alma nodded.

  “Be my guest.”

  Lewis stepped back, letting the Frenchman aboard, and Mitch could hear voices for a moment as they moved further into the Cat’s hull. A moment later, Claudet was back, nodding as he swung himself back onto the dock.

  “Yes, I can store all that for you, that won’t be a problem. How long will I need to hold it?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Alma answered. “No more than a week.”

  “Very good.” Claudet nodded vigorously. “I will get my men to help you.”

  It took almost half the afternoon to offload the Catalina’s passenger fittings, the bunks and the expensive chairs carried into a corner of the warehouse, the curtains and pillows and monogrammed blankets all packed into crates and stacked with them. Once that was done, the loading went quickly, but the sun was setting by the time the last crate of ammunition was onboard and secured. None of the boxes carried Fusil Darne’s name, Mitch noticed, and he couldn’t hide a sardonic smile. Claudet lifted an eyebrow, and Mitch gave him his most innocent look.

  ”I thought you said this was all legal.”

  “Yes?”

  “No labels.”

  “That is for my sake,” Claudet said. “It is legal, certainly, but the Italians have agents here, like everyone else. And they are determined that there will not be another embarrassing failure, like in ‘95.”

  “Problems?” Alma asked, coming up beside them, and Mitch shook his head.

  “None that I foresee,” Claudet said. “I will put an extra watchman on the dock tonight — there are always two in the warehouse, but I think it would be wise to watch the plane more closely.”

  “Do I need to leave a man aboard?” Alma asked.

  Claudet shrugged. “If they get past three of my men, I doubt one more will make enough difference.”

  Alma considered. Mitch could almost read her thoughts, the same calculations they would all be making: was it better to protect the cargo, or to get a good night’s sleep, given the long flight ahead. Better to get the sleep, Mitch thought, and wasn’t surprised when she nodded. “True enough. And I assume trouble would raise an alarm.”

  “Most certainly,” Claudet said. “And I pay the police to be assiduous in their attentions.”

  Mitch couldn’t help lifting an eyebrow and Claudet smiled.

  “Except of course when I pay them not to be.”

  Alma laughed softly, but Claudet sobered quickly.

  “You should know, Madame, that the Italians are taking this invasion very seriously. As I was saying to M. Sorley, here, they have any number of agents in Alexandria. I would not worry so much about trouble on the dock as about those agents radioing ahead to their troops. The Italian air force has been much engaged, or so one hears.” He turned to stare into the sun that glared almost cherry-red between the housetops, bloody light and heavy shadows spreading across the water. “That is why I would not make this flight. The Italians have control of the air. I do not think they’ll let any relief flights get through.”

  “We’re landing well behind the front lines,” Alma said.

  “Don’t tell me where.” Claudet lifted his hands. “I don’t want to know, even if I can guess. But there’s not much that would be of use to the Ethiopians that isn’t within range of the forward bases.”

  Alma looked thoughtfully at him. “You’ve flown this route many time, I believe?”

  “I have.”

  “If you were taking a flying boat, given the circumstances, how would you go?”

  “I would stay to the west of my destination for as long as possible,” Claudet answered. “But you’ll still be within range.”

  “We’ll have to chance it,” Alma said, and held out her hand. “Thank you for your help.”

  Claudet took it. “I have done very little. But — my son is my co-pilot. The way things are going, he’ll probably end up being shot at for someone, but — not now. Not for this.”

  “I understand,” Alma said, and they moved away.

  And the trouble was, Mitch thought, he did understand. If it was Jimmy, he’d feel the same. The real reason they were doing it was that Iskinder was a friend, was their Lodge-mate, bound by the same oaths and promises as they. He wouldn’t do it for anything less, but it was certainly enough.

  It took a while to catch a cab back to the Metropole, and Mitch found himself watching the traffic warily, looking for cars that seemed to follow theirs. There was one sedan with mismatched headlights, its color unreadable in the dark, that stuck behind them for blocks, but turned off before they reached the Corniche. He sighed in relief, but as they climbed out in front of the hotel and Lewis leaned in to pay the driver, Mitch thought he saw the same mismatched lights among the oncoming traffic. They were gone before he could be sure, and he stood staring for a moment, until Alma touched his arm.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’m not — I thought maybe there was a car following us.” He shook his head. “If it was, it’s gone now.”

  Alma’s mouth tightened, but then she shrugged. “Well, following us here isn’t so bad. It doesn’t get them any closer to Iskinder. And anyway, we’ll all be out of here tomorrow.”

  “True enough.” Mitch followed her into the lobby, where a hundred electric lights glowed in the elaborate sconces and the enormous chandelier. An orchestra was playing in the dining room, and couples in evening dress were standing in the bar. And tomorrow, he thought, we fly south into a war.

  Alexandria, Egypt

  January 3, 1936

  It was past midnight, but Jerry was still awake, watching the curtains shiver in the night breeze. The air was cold, and he was glad of Willi sleeping next to him, extra warmth against the winter chill. The waxing moon cast faint shadows: the night was clear, and he hoped the good weather would continue for the next few days. Alma was going to need all the breaks if this was going to work out.

  Next to him, Willi shifted, starting awake from a dream, and Jerry moved to accommodate him. They lay for a moment in silence as Willi’s breathing slowed, and then he said, “You wish you were going.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Jerry answered anyway. “I wish I was. I wish I could.”

  “And if you could, of course you would.”

  There was bitterness in Willi’s voice. It made Jerry glance sideways at him. “’.I told you, Iskinder is my oldest friend. I’d do it for that alone.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Willi shook his head. “A dream. Nothing.”

  “I’m worried, too,” Jerry said. “Did you think I wasn’t?”

  Willi shook his head again. “No.”

  “I want to go with them.” Jerry rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling where a band of moonlight swept like a clock’s hand across the cracked plaster. His stump rubbed against the sheet, and what felt like a jolt of electricity lanced through his missing ankle, real pain for a phantom foot. He winced, shifting his other foot to press against the tingling bone, but as always there was nothing there, and nothing to do but ride it out. “I know I can’t, I’d only be in the way, but —”

  “What would you do? Even if
you were whole? You’re not a pilot. Or a gun-runner.”

  “This is my Lodge,” Jerry said, and wished he could swallow the words as soon as they were spoken. He felt Willi tense, his muscles tight with the effort not to pull away. They lay in silence for a moment, and another bolt of pain shot through his missing foot. He jerked and swore, and Willi touched his shoulder, silent apology.

  “Do you need anything?”

  Jerry shook his head. “It’s just my leg.”

  “A glass of bourbon?” Willi propped himself up on one elbow.

  It might be a distraction, but it wouldn’t really help. “Thanks, but no.”

  “They’ll be all right,” Willi said, after a moment. “Alma is very good — as are the others — and the Catalina is a quite remarkable airplane.”

  “I know.” Jerry drew up his leg, rubbing the stump against the sheet as though that might help. The pain eased for a heartbeat, then bit again, and he deliberately ground the sorest spot against the linen. Sometimes it helped to fight fire with fire.

  “The Italians won’t shoot at them. The plane is well marked, and America is not involved. The last thing the Italians want is an international incident. And besides, from what Ras Iskinder said, they’ll be landing well behind the front lines.”

  “If the Italians shoot them down, all they have to do is deny it ever happened,” Jerry said. “Who’d know? A crash over unfamiliar terrain, engine trouble — and they shouldn’t have been there in the first place —”

  “Floyd Odlum would not take kindly to losing his plane,” Willi said. “Even if it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Your friend Kershaw isn’t without influence, and the Swedish government would certainly take an interest. No, the Italians aren’t stupid. This whole invasion is dubious enough without making more enemies.”

  “You’re right.” The pain was easing, and Jerry shifted cautiously to a more comfortable position. “I just — I wish there were something I could do.”

  “You made the arrangements,” Willi said. “Surely that counts.”

  “No, I know. I — This is only the beginning. The next big war is coming, hell, it’s already begun, and I’m a useless cripple —” He bit off the rest of what he might have said, already ashamed of his weakness, and Willi made an indignant sound.

  “You are crippled, yes, but you are hardly useless. You always find a way to manage.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You really think there will be another war,” Willi said.

  “I’m sure of it.” Jerry felt tears prickling behind his eyes, flung his arm over them angrily.

  Willi shook his head. “Mussolini is a thug, yes, but no one is going to war for Ethiopia. Or for Libya. I’m sorry, Jerry, but you know that’s true. As for the rest of Europe — no one is going to be dragged into another war like the last one. We all lost too much.”

  “They will,” Jerry said. “I don’t know how, but — it’s coming.”

  Willi rolled over, wrapping himself around Jerry’s body, one arm across his chest, one leg pinning Jerry’s thighs. He brushed a kiss beneath Jerry’s ear. “You’re worried about Alma. And — yes, all right, it’s dangerous, but she is very good.”

  The embrace felt good, solid warmth and weight against his skin, but it did not drive away the cold certainty: war was coming. But not tonight, he told himself, and did his best to relax under Willi’s hold. “I know,” he said, and closed his eyes against the night.

  Mitch was up before dawn, full of the dubious alertness that he remembered from the war. The others were just as early, and they paid their bill and loaded their scanty luggage into the back of the taxi summoned by the hotel porter. Alma let him drive a block toward the Lake Mareotis terminals, then leaned forward.

  “Wait. Stop here.”

  The cabbie pulled over, glancing back at her with a tolerant look. “We go back for something, lady?”

  “No. We need to stop at this address first.” She passed a slip of paper over the seat, and the cabbie took it with a shrug.

  “Yes, sure, ok.”

  There were more people in the streets in the neighborhood where Jerry lived, though you could hardly call it crowded, the first wave of workers heading out, cooks and bakers and the early shopkeepers, most with a shawl over their heads against the early-morning chill. Overhead, the stars were starting to fade, though the eastern horizon was still hidden behind the houses. The moon had been down for hours: not light enough to fly, Mitch thought, but getting there.

  The cabbie pulled to a stop outside Jerry’s flat, and Mitch levered himself out of the back seat. There were lights on behind the third floor windows, and a moment later, the main door opened. Jerry and Iskinder crossed the sidewalk together, and Mitch stepped aside to let Iskinder crowd into the cab next to Alma. Jerry looked up and down the street, then looked at Mitch.

  “What do you want me to do if there’s trouble?”

  “If we’re not back by the 8th, wire Henry in Palermo,” Mitch said. It was the best he could think of. “He should know where to start.”

  Jerry nodded and took a step back. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Mitch said, and crammed himself back into the taxi. The others shifted uncomfortably, Alma practically sitting on Iskinder’s lap, and the cabbie gave them an uncertain glance.

  “The Lake Mareotis terminals,” Lewis said, before the man could protest, and the cab pulled slowly away from the curb.

  “You’re sure von Rosen knows where to meet us?” Mitch said, and Alma scowled at him.

  “I was as clear as I could be. And if he’s not there, he’ll just have to find another ride.”

  There was nothing to say to that, and Mitch was conscious he was only talking out of nerves. He braced himself against the seat, hoping the door was solidly latched, and hung on until they pulled up outside the cluster of buildings that made up the lakeside terminal. There were lights on in the main building, but most of the warehouses were still dark and shuttered. Mitch hauled himself out of the back of the cab, then steadied Alma as she climbed out.

  “I don’t see Claudet,” he began, and she shook her head.

  “Third door down.”

  He looked again, and realized that one of the shadowed rectangles was a little lighter than the others. Maybe there was a light inside, it was hard to tell, but at least it was someplace to go. He picked up his satchel as the cab pulled away, and then Alma’s, both equally small and light. Iskinder had no baggage at all, not even a bundle, and Mitch felt a cold finger touch his spine. Iskinder was heading home, yes, but home was at war. He had come this far with less than nothing, from what Jerry had said, and the only thing that mattered was the cargo he was bringing with him. Iskinder saw him looking then, and gave a wry smile.

  “You can’t know,” he said softly, “I can’t tell you how much difference this will make. And — I have to say it again, Mitch, it’s dangerous.”

  “You’ve said that enough,” Alma said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I believe you, I really do. But this is work put before us.”

  Iskinder smiled again, the expression more relaxed. “I suppose it is —”

  A movement in the shadows caught Mitch’s eye, and he was already turning as the men emerged from the alley between the first warehouse and the main terminal, putting himself between them and the rest of the group. None of them seemed to be carrying guns, but there were five of them, and at least two were carrying what looked like lengths of pipe. A third carried a knife, and Mitch was willing to bet the other two were equally armed.

  “Hey,” Tiny began, and Lewis took a quick step forward, putting himself at Mitch’s side.

  “Go on,” Mitch said, to Alma. She took a step back and screamed, sounding as loud as a steam whistle in the pre-dawn quiet. The first of the men faltered, and Mitch took a quick step forward, swinging for his jaw. He connected, and the man dropped like a stone. Mitch shook his bruised hand, swearing, and Alma screamed again. A second man rushed him, pipe
swinging. Mitch ducked under it, and drove two short jabs into the man’s stomach. He doubled over, and Mitch knocked him backward with another fist to the jaw. He stumbled and fell back, dropping his pipe, and Mitch scooped it up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lewis knee a third man in the groin, leaving him kneeling on the pavement clutching himself.

  Lights flared in the terminal, doors opening, and Mitch lifted the pipe. “Stay back!”

  Alma screamed a third time, and a handful of men sprinted out of the terminal, several of them in uniform. One of the attackers looked over his shoulder, and quickly backed away, shouting something as he went. The one Lewis had kicked managed to hobble a few yards, only to be dragged back by one of the uniformed men. Another man in uniform bent over the unconscious man, and a man in a good suit said, “What has happened here?”

  “These men attacked us,” Alma said. She was pitching her voice a little higher than usual, and Mitch gave her a wary glance. “I think they wanted to rob us!”

  Men had emerged from the warehouses behind them, too, among them Claudet and a young man who had to be his son. And von Rosen, lagging behind the others, a worried frown on his thin face.

  “And what are you doing here so early?” the man in the suit asked.

  “We’d arranged with the tower to leave first thing,” Alma said, still high and breathless. “As soon as the horizon was clear, so we wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.”

  “That’s right, lieutenant,” one of the other civilians said. Mitch thought he was one of the men who worked the tower. “We have them on the schedule.”

  The lieutenant looked down at the one who was still unconscious, and prodded him lightly with one foot. The unconscious man didn’t move, and the other looked up again. “You will need to make a formal report, madam. If you expect us to prosecute.”

  “But you’ve stopped them,” Alma answered. “No one was hurt, and I expect they’ve learned their lesson.”

  Someone, perhaps Claudet, made a choking noise. The lieutenant gave her an illusionless stare. “So you don’t want to press charges, madam.”