The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

by Vic Robbie

  Ronnie’s men didn’t talk but conveyed their intentions with a head movement or a look. Two of the agents opened the nearest doors, but the rooms were empty, discarded items suggesting a hasty departure. Ben moved along a corridor which ended in a solid oak door, and when he entered the room an acrid odour overcame him, and he stepped back to recover. Piles of greying papers smouldered on the floor. They had swept clean the large mahogany desk that dominated the space, and he noticed a mark on a wall where a picture had hung. Ash and fumes permeated the air, and when he kicked the pile of burnt paper, a small fire still flared beneath it. The Nazis had made certain they’d leave little.

  Where was Freddie?

  ‘We must search everywhere,’ he said to those closest to him. At one closed door, he hesitated with an overwhelming feeling of foreboding, before kicking it open. A recognisable stench assailed his senses. Four people lay in a corner. The two women wore maids’ uniforms while the men were bar staff. The Germans had herded them together before shooting them. Their faces were the colour of putty, and their eyes stared as if appealing for his help.

  One of Ronnie’s operatives called him to a bedroom where an agent sifted through various discarded items lying on a bed.

  ‘That’s Freddie’s book,’ Alena gasped, walking into the room followed by Ronnie. ‘Where’s my son?’

  A low groaning noise emanated from behind a slatted cupboard door. He ordered them to move clear and, with pistol poised, eased it open. As they stepped back, a small, plump, local woman wearing a maid’s uniform bundled out with blood leaking out of a deep wound on her neck.

  Alena recoiled in horror and turned away.

  ‘Please,’ the maid pleaded. ‘Donna kill me.’

  He crouched beside her and lifted her hands from her face and smiled. ‘It’s okay; we’re friends.’

  Traumatised, she did not understand and brought a hand back up.

  ‘Amigos,’ he said, but there was doubt on her face.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Que?’

  ‘Where have the Germans gone?’

  She stared at him.

  Mario pushed past and spoke in a soft voice and although in great pain, she was more trusting. After a few minutes, he got to his feet and glanced at his watch with a frown. ‘They left her, thinking she was dead. She overheard them mention the airport. Appears they’re planning to flee the country.’

  ‘What about Freddie?’ Alena said, and he had to stop her from grabbing the woman and shaking the information out of her. ‘What have they done with him?’

  Mario bent over the maid and after a brief conversation stood up, shook his head, and turned to Alena with a worried look. ‘She doesn’t know.’

  39

  Mario drove the red convertible with a casual ferocity that had Ben holding on as he cut every corner to catch them. There was no alternative. Once aboard the flight, they would disappear forever. Alena sat behind the driver, leaning forward, urging him to go even faster.

  Before they left the compound, the maid had called Mario back and whispered to him that she had heard the Germans talking about Morón, not the new Ministro Pistarini. ‘That would make sense,’ he said. ‘They’re more likely to avoid the international airport and take a chartered flight.’

  For all Mario’s skilful manoeuvring, they couldn’t catch the fleeing Nazis. The maid had informed him that many cars left together. And Ben feared they might have split up with some heading for the airport while others went by road to the nearby border with Uruguay. If correct, they could arrive at Morón to find that Freddie was already in another country.

  When not banging on the driver’s seat, Alena clasped her hands in frustration and rocked to and fro as if to increase their speed. And she was oblivious to anything he said to her.

  ‘The problema,’ Mario shouted above the buffeting wind, ‘is the airport is a big place, and we don’t know which flight they’re taking.’

  Pickering said nothing but lit his pipe, sending a cloud of smoke billowing in their wake, and pulled on his beard as he stared into space.

  Mario had phoned his compatriots, ordering them to go to the airport to look for the Nazis and the woman and boy. Ben doubted it would yield results, but the more men on the ground, the better. There had been no sightings, and his hopes were fading fast as they arrived. To the consternation of a traffic cop, they stopped in a no-waiting zone, but he walked away when the second car drove alongside. The rest of Ronnie’s group were following in a truck and would arrive after the action. Although armed, Ronnie’s agents had concealed their weapons so as not to attract the attention of the police.

  ‘Split up into pairs,’ Ben said. ‘Spread out and get searching. If you spot them, alert us.’

  He teamed up with Alena. Ronnie ordered Pickering to join her. Mario partnered a French agent. And the others formed the fourth couple. A quick scan of the interior gleaned nothing. He did not know who they were looking for, but they would be male. Natalie and Freddie could have been hidden anywhere, perhaps in a toilet or an unused storeroom, to be brought out when ready to board. Instead of being together, the men were likely sitting in pairs or singly so as not to attract attention. The obvious targets were boys, then women and those of Germanic appearance.

  The building was as big as an aircraft hangar and crowded. He should have expected it of a busy airport with scheduled flights, run by a variety of airlines to all parts of the continent. Solo travellers, couples, elderly people and families filled the space, and it hummed with excited voices and shrieks as children chased each other weaving in and out of the throng. Alena studied everyone with an unblinking stare as if able to see through metal doors and her face showed an increasing desperation as she ruled out possible targets. She focused only on children, so he concentrated on finding Natalie. Her distinctive long black hair should be easy to spot, but too many wore hats or headscarves, making identification all the harder.

  As they moved deeper into the building, he tried to fathom how they would engineer their escape. He doubted they would travel by scheduled flight with a hostage struggling and calling out. They must have chartered a plane, and the authorities would ease their departure. Once in the air, they would be free to go anywhere.

  Departure boards listed flights to destinations all around the continent, but he ignored those and walked over to a window overlooking the runway. Planes awaited passengers and, at the far end of the field, a solitary aircraft stood outside a smaller building. At the gate closest to him, tickets and passports were being checked. Three men, perhaps travelling alone, and two women, one young and the other, older and clutching a package. In mounting frustration, his gaze swept the area, then he saw her. He would have recognised that black hair anywhere, tucked under a green beret. She sat with her back to the main concourse, and he hesitated, searching for Muller’s men nearby.

  A mixture of emotions coursed through him. Were they using Natalie as a decoy while they smuggled the boy out of the country by a different route?

  He walked up and placed a hand on her shoulder, expecting her to make a run for it, but she turned in surprise. She was older than Natalie and scowled and swore. Raising both hands in apology, he offered a diffident smile and retreated. But she kept cursing and complaining to those around her, and her protests alerted a policeman walking towards him.

  There was a tap on his shoulder and he wheeled fearing the worst.

  Urgency spread across Mario’s broad face, and he spoke so fast he stumbled over the words. ‘Definitely a charter.’ He pointed towards the end of the airfield. ‘It’s that Lancastrian. People are being bussed out now.’

  A dark green vehicle was traversing the field. ‘Damn! You sure?’

  ‘I saw a woman and a boy.’

  By the time Alena joined them, the bus had stopped, and passengers were stepping onto the tarmac. She followed their stare and gripped Ben tight. From this distance, it was hard to identify them. A blond man was directing the others and an old
er white-haired man, moved as if in pain and supported by two thickset men. A woman wearing a headscarf clutched a boy’s hand. The boy kept glancing back as if looking for someone, and she appeared to be cajoling him to climb aboard.

  ‘Oh, my God, it’s Freddie,’ Alena said. ‘Freddie,’ she called and moved towards the doors leading onto the airfield.

  ‘Stop,’ he shouted, but she had discarded her shoes and was running full pelt across the tarmac, her hair streaming behind like wings.

  As Ronnie charged up to them with Pickering labouring in her wake, three Germans blocked their path. One carried a 9mm MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol and pointed it at them.

  ‘Get inside,’ he ordered in a German accent. ‘You’ll be free once the plane is airborne if you do as I say.’

  As people around them scrambled for safety, screaming in fear and deserting baggage and belongings, another German took out a Luger. He motioned them over to where the rest of Ronnie’s team sat cross-legged on the floor with their hands on heads. ‘Over there. Now!’

  He scanned the area. The police had melted away. They would refuse to come to their aid as the Nazis escaped with Freddie. And they would end up being shot once the plane departed. He wondered if any of the French agents still had a weapon.

  As the doors of the Lancastrian shut and the four propellers started up, Ronnie shouted: ‘Look. It’s moving.’

  The call distracted the Nazi carrying the Schmeisser, and Ronnie stepped forward, drawing a pistol from her bag and shooting him in the chest. He fell backwards, spraying bullets around the terminal, eliciting more screams as bystanders ducked for cover. In that moment of hesitation, one of Ronnie’s agents pulled out his concealed weapon and fired, the shots sounding like exploding champagne corks.

  He grabbed Pickering and dragged him to safety behind a table. Mario followed, eyes wide open in fear. The firefight didn’t last long. But the ensuing silence appeared to last an eternity as if time had fractured and everything was moving in slow motion. Clouds of gun smoke caught their breath and cartridges skittered on the stone floor. Three Germans were down. Two motionless. Another twitching and moaning in the throes of death. One French agent was dead. And Pickering was holding an arm.

  ‘It’s okay, old man, just a flesh wound.’ He attempted a smile.

  There was no sign of Ronnie. And then he saw she was lying on her side as if an unseen force had slammed her against a counter. He made to go over, but Pickering pulled him back.

  ‘They’re getting away.’ The plane was taxiing towards the runway.

  ‘Ronnie?’ He was undecided. Help her or go after them.

  ‘I’ll take care of her,’ Pickering said, wincing as he clutched his wounded arm. ‘Go now.’

  ‘Mario, the car keys,’ Ben ordered, and the Argentine threw them to him.

  He had no plan, but he sprinted out of the terminal and jumped into the car. Alena was still running towards the Lancastrian, but she had little chance of catching it. He aimed the convertible at a gate used by the petrol tankers and floored the accelerator. The Lancastrian’s engines roared as it turned before moving onto the runway.

  ‘It’s okay, Alena, I’m on my way,’ he shouted, but the noise and wind swallowed his voice.

  40

  Alena was slowing. She weaved from side to side as the effort weakened her, and he soon reined her in and drew alongside.

  ‘Get in,’ he shouted, decelerating to her pace.

  Red-faced and with sweat drenching her clothes, she glanced at him without a sign of recognition and grunted. Grabbing the car door, she pulled herself up onto the running board, before falling into the passenger seat. She manoeuvred into a sitting position and pointed at the disappearing plane. ‘We’re losing him,’ she panted.

  Gritting his teeth, he pressed harder on the accelerator. The car swayed and bucked as it picked up speed. They were gaining on the Lancastrian, and his mind raced as he worked out how to rescue Freddie.

  Get ahead and swerve in front to force it to slow down.

  But he soon rejected the idea as the propellers could cut them to shreds.

  Inch by inch, they drew closer until almost running level. The end of the runway was approaching fast, and the plane would soon be off the ground. It looked hopeless.

  A door in the fuselage opened. Natalie stood framed in the opening, holding on with one hand as her hair swirled around her face. She gave a frantic wave and shouted, but her voice faded in the slipstream. White-faced and small, Freddie appeared from behind. She took hold of him by the collar and glanced behind as though someone was talking to her.

  ‘Need to swap,’ he shouted at Alena. ‘Move over into the driver’s seat.’

  She stood up and almost fell backwards as the force of the wind hit her. Holding the windshield, she stepped over his legs as he kept the accelerator flat to the floor. She sat on his lap, blocking his vision, and they swerved, nearly hitting the side of the plane.

  ‘Stand up,’ he yelled and, keeping his foot on the pedal, slid over. And she sat down.

  ‘Have you found the pedal?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Right, I’m taking my foot off. Keep it pressed down all the way.’

  As he removed his foot, the car slowed and lurched, and the plane moved ahead. But within seconds, they were level again with the Lancastrian.

  An arm appeared from the dark recesses of the aircraft and attempted to pull Natalie in.

  ‘Closer, so we’re just about touching.’

  Alena pulled hard on the steering wheel. Too hard. The car and the fuselage came together raising sparks, and they veered away again. He reached out, but the distance between them was too great.

  ‘Get it back. Closer.’

  Natalie wrestled a grasping hand away from her throat.

  ‘Now, Natalie.’ This was their last chance.

  Natalie held Freddie’s arm and pushed him out into the void, and he swung like a rag doll in the wind. She was struggling to keep hold of him, and she kept calling to them, but Ben couldn’t hear.

  ‘Nearer,’ he ordered and stood up on his seat. ‘As close as possible without hitting it. Got to get this right.’

  As it started to take off, they almost travelled under the fuselage. In seconds, the boy would be lost forever. He opened his door and moved onto the sill. He grabbed the top of the windshield and leant out and came close to falling over. Out the corner of an eye, he saw someone attempting to close the door. Natalie was losing control, and Freddie flew up as the slipstream hit him.

  ‘Let go, Natalie, let go.’

  As she released him, Ben’s arms locked around the boy’s legs, but his weight and the wind pulled him backwards. He lost his grip and Freddie flew past and landed on the trunk before sliding down the back. Buffeted by the slipstream, Ben got upright again and pulled himself into the back seat. He reached for Freddie and, as they bucked and bounced, after several attempts grasped his hand. ‘Hold on, Freddie.’ He slithered along the seat, getting a second hand on the boy’s shirt.

  In an attempt to grab hold of Ben’s legs, Alena turned, taking her foot off the accelerator and hands off the steering wheel. The car turned sharp right under the fuselage of the rising plane. It veered off the runway and onto the grass verge and bumped along until it came to a halt. As he pulled the terrified boy in, Alena screamed and clambered over to embrace her son.

  ‘We must go to the terminal,’ he said. He changed places so she could sit with Freddie on her knee, and both she and the boy sobbed in each other’s arms. ‘We’re not in the clear yet. There could be more Nazis about.’

  They drove back, her soothing voice reassuring him that it was over and nothing could harm him now. But the boy was still shocked, and, white-faced, he stared behind at the lights fading into the night sky.

  When they reached the terminal, she beamed with gratitude. Her hair was tousled, and Ben brushed it back. And she leant in and took his face in both hands and kissed him full and hard on the lips.

  Two ambula
nces had drawn up outside the terminal and inside a team of medics treated the wounded and dealt with the dead. The police had appeared as if they had just arrived and were questioning the survivors.

  Pickering sat on the arm of a chair, looking at the floor as if contemplating what had happened. As they entered, he stood up with a look of relief or sadness. Ben couldn’t tell.

  ‘Well done, you’ve got him.’ He stuck out his good hand and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘How on earth did you manage it?’

  It was all down to Natalie. ‘Natalie’s the heroine,’ Ben said, understanding the part she had played in the rescue. ‘If she hadn’t got the door open, we would have lost Freddie. God knows what will happen to her now.’

  And Alena shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Had my doubts, but she came good in the end,’ Pickering replied.

  ‘And she’s just sentenced herself to death.’

  ‘Afraid so, old man. Once they reach a suitable altitude, they’ll probably throw her out,’ Pickering said. He put a hand to his mouth, realising he should not have said that in front of the boy.

  But Freddie wasn’t paying attention and was locked in Alena’s arms, and she was smothering him with kisses.

  There was carnage everywhere. Three Nazis lay dead beneath white sheets. One of the French agents was also dead. Another had been shot in an arm that was hanging off. A third, nursing a wounded knee, was being lifted into a wheelchair. Although they had come out on top, there was no sense of elation, just dejection.

  ‘Where’s Ronnie?’ he said, feeling a twinge of anxiety, and turned to Pickering, who was making light of his wound.

  Pickering looked down. ‘Not good, old man.’ The cadence of his voice confirming the gravity of her condition.

  He followed Pickering’s gaze to where she still lay up against a counter. The ambulance men had rolled her onto her back and were working hard on her still body.