Faked Passports

by Dennis Wheatley

  “All right, then; land me somewhere else—I don’t care where—any place you like so long as it’s inside Germany. Then I’ll make my own way back to Berlin.”

  “How the hell can I, with the whole country blacked out? You must see for yourself that without a single thing to guide me in it’s a hundred to one that I’d crash the plane on a hillside or in a wood.”

  “How far d’you reckon we are from Berlin?”

  Charlton glanced at his dash-board. “I managed to pick up a few lights way out on our left, through a break in the clouds, a few minutes ago, and as I know this country like the back of my hand I’m certain they were in the town of Brandenburg. In another few moments we shall be passing over the Elbe so we’re somewhere about sixty miles due west of Berlin by now.”

  “That’s not so bad.” Gregory murmured; “the province of Brandenburg is flattish country, mostly sandy wastes and farmland which is very sparsely populated. With a bit of luck we might find a spot where you could land me without much likelihood of running into trouble. Be a sportsman and go down low, just to see if you can make out the lie of the land.”

  “No, Sallust; it would be absolutely suicidal. The antiaircraft people hereabouts haven’t had much to do during the first few months of the war so normally they’re pretty sleepy but, as you say yourself, they’ll be on their toes tonight waiting for the latest news from Berlin; and this is a prohibited area. I never feel safe until I’ve climbed to over 30,000 and we’re miles from that height yet. Even up here, if the Nazis pick up the note of my engine in their listening-posts, they may start blazing off at us. We’re still well within range and I happen to know their orders. Fire first and ask questions afterwards!’”

  Gregory moved uneasily in his seat. Somehow or other he was determined to get back to Berlin. He could, of course, let Freddie Charlton fly him home, lie up for four days and arrange to be flown out again to the secret landing-ground on the following Sunday night but in the meantime anything might happen and the one thought that agitated his now active mind was the awful danger in which his beloved Erika stood. Tonight Berlin was in utter confusion; almost certainly the street-fighting would still be in progress tomorrow. While the Germans were killing one another they would be much too occupied to do any spy-hunting. If only he could return at once he would be able to move about the city freely, for some hours at least, without being called on to produce any papers. While von Pleisen’s officers were still holding their own he would be able to get in touch with some of those he had met and, since many of them knew Erika, ascertain through them the most likely places in which to look for her.

  On the other hand, if he could get back to Berlin before Monday morning a decision would almost certainly have been reached by then. If the Generals had come out on top there would be nothing for him to worry about; but he was now extremely dubious about their chances, and if the revolt had been suppressed the old Nazi tyranny would be clamped down more firmly than ever before. Storm-Troopers and police would be challenging all who dared to put their noses out of doors, and without papers his arrest would be certain before he had been back in the Capital an hour.

  There was no question about it; his only hope of rejoining Erika lay in returning to Berlin while the fighting was still going on. That meant that he must land in Germany again that night, and every mile further that he allowed Charlton to fly him from the Capital would make his task of getting back there more difficult. He began to plead again—urgently—desperately—but Charlton continued adamant in his refusal.

  At last Gregory fell silent, but that did not mean that he had abandoned his project. Instead he had begun to contemplate desperate measures—no less than an attempt to render Charlton powerless and take charge of the plane himself.

  He felt confident that if he could get control of the plane he knew enough of aircraft to get the machine down without allowing it to plunge headlong to destruction. Landing was another matter. He did not flatter himself for a second that he could perform such an operation successfully when an ace pilot like Charlton declared that in the black-out a crash was inevitable; but modern planes are stoutly built so Gregory was prepared for a crash and to take a chance that if he could bring the plane down slowly with its engine shut off, once it had hit the ground, he would be able to get Charlton and himself clear of it without serious injury.

  The idea was semi-suicidal and Gregory realised that it was extremely hard on Charlton that his life and freedom should be jeopardised by such an act; but if the airman would not help him by attempting to land of his own free will he must take the consequences. Gregory had risked his neck too often to worry about himself and now the only thing he cared to live for was Erika von Epp.

  Leaning forward he peered down towards the hidden landscape in an attempt to assess the density of the darkness. For a few moments he could see nothing because they were flying high above a heavy cloud-bank, but after a little the clouds broke and far below he caught sight of a few tiny pin-points of light. The German black-out was still far from perfect. In spite of heavy penalties for slackness there had been a natural tendency to be careless about A.R.P. as the only enemy planes which had flown over the country since the outbreak of war had dropped leaflets instead of bombs.

  The lights suddenly disappeared again but Gregory reckoned that once below the cloud-bank he would be able to pick up plenty more. The altimeter of the plane would give him his height until he was within a thousand feet of the ground. If he brought the machine down in a long, flat spiral he could watch the lights. If any of them blacked out he would know that the crest of a hill had come between them and him and so he would be able to zoom up again to repeat the process until, with luck, he struck an area of flattish ground on which he could chance a landing with some prospect of not crashing too badly.

  The problem was how to overcome the pilot. Had both Gregory’s arms been sound he would have flung over Charlton’s head the rug in which his own legs were wrapped and pulled him backwards out of his seat. One flick of the controls would be enough to turn the plane’s steering gear over to “George”, the gyroscopic mechanism which would keep the machine steady while he tied Charlton up. But, wounded as he was, Gregory knew that such a plan was quite impracticable; he hadn’t the strength to overcome the airman. The only alternative was to knock Charlton out: a rotten thing to have to do, but once Gregory had made up his mind about a course of action he never allowed sentiment to deter him from his purpose.

  Stooping down he began to grope about at his feet in the hope of finding some object with which he could hit the unsuspecting pilot over the back of the head.

  Charlton must have sensed something of what had been going on in Gregory’s mind. He turned suddenly and said:

  “What’re you up to?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Gregory, who, having failed to find on the floor of the plane any object which he might use as a weapon, had pushed back the rug and begun to unlace one of his shoes with the idea of using that. He did not wish to hurt the airman more than necessary and reckoned that a good blow with the heel would be sufficient to stun him temporarily without cutting open his head.

  Charlton appeared satisfied but a moment later he swung round again. Gregory had his shoe off and was holding it by the toe, in his right hand, ready to aim his blow.

  “Now, look here,” Charlton snapped, “no funny business! If you’re thinking of trying to land me one with that shoe and taking over the plane you’d better think again. You’ve got only one good arm and I’ve got two. What’s more, I’ve got a spanner here. I’m afraid you’re so overwrought that you’re near as dammit off your rocker; otherwise you’d never contemplate sending us both crashing to our death. If you make one move towards me or the controls of this plane I’ll have to knock you senseless!”

  The two men stared angrily at each other. Charlton had his jaw thrust out and evidently meant every word he said. Gregory’s eyes were narrowed and the white scar of an old wound which caught up his
left eyebrow, giving him a slightly Satanic appearance, showed a livid white.

  The airman was wondering if it would not be wisest, without further argument, to knock out this maniac who threatened to jeopardise both their lives, and his right hand was already groping for the heavy spanner which lay beside his bucket seat. The lean, sinewy soldier of fortune was coolly assessing his chances in an open attack. They would be much less than if he could have taken the airman by surprise, as at the moment he was very much the weaker of the two; but he believed that he could rely upon his greater experience in scrapping, and the utter ruthlessness with which he always acted if once compelled to enter any fight, to get in one good blow on Charlton’s temple before the airman could overpower him.

  “If you get hurt you’ve brought it on yourself,” Gregory muttered, glad now to have been relieved from the repugnant act of striking from behind a man whom he would normally have counted a friend.

  “For God’s sake …!” Charlton exclaimed. He was furious with Gregory for placing him in such a situation. Although he had switched the plane’s controls over to the gyroscopes he realised the hideous danger of a fight in mid-air which might even temporarily incapacitate him and he was more than a little scared by the gleam in Gregory’s eyes.

  Suddenly the tension was broken. The steady hum of the engine was abruptly shattered by a sharp report and Gregory saw the livid flash that stabbed the darkness a little ahead of them to their right.

  “Hell!” Charlton gasped, swinging round to the controls. “They’re on to us!”

  As the plane dived steeply another flash appeared away to their left—a third—a fourth. Each was accompanied by a sharp report like the crack of a whip. A German anti-aircraft battery had the plane taped through its sound range-finder and was putting up a barrage all round it; some of the shells exploded like Roman Candles, sending out strings of ‘Flaming Onions’. At the sound of the first bang Gregory stuffed his shoe in the pocket of his greatcoat and flung himself backwards, pushing out his feet to support himself as they hurtled downwards.

  The bursting shells were now far above them but as the plane rushed towards the earth the pilot and his passenger could see that they were over another large break in the cloud-bank. Pinpoints of light showed far away in the darkness below while a little in front the blackness was stabbed repeatedly by bright flashes from the guns of the anti-aircraft battery. They seemed to make its position an almost continuous pool of light, like a baleful furnace flickering unevenly in the surrounding gloom.

  Charlton suddenly checked the plane and zoomed up again. The strain was terrific. Gregory was almost shot out of his seat. His heart seemed to leap up into his throat. Now the Germans had got their searchlights going and bright pencils of coloured light cut the sky here and there, sweeping swiftly from side to side in search of the plane.

  The machine was on an even keel again, heading southward, and the groups of shell-bursts were well away to their left. For a moment it seemed as though they had got away but, without warning, one of the searchlights, coming up from behind, caught the plane, lighting the roof of the cabin as it passed with the brightness of full day. In a second they had flashed out of it. Charlton banked steeply to the west but two seconds later it was back on to them again. The other beams swung together as though operated by a single hand; the plane was trapped in their blinding glare. The guns of the battery altered their range and sent up another broadside of shells which burst immediately below the aircraft, rocking it from side to side with the violence of a cockle-shell in a tempest.

  Getting it into control once more Charlton dived and twisted in a frantic endeavour to get free. Gregory was flung first to one side and then to another; but the searchlights clung to them and, in the fractional intervals between the reports of the bursting shells, there was thud after thud as steel fragments and shrapnel tore the fuselage.

  Suddenly the engine stuttered and gave out.

  “They’ve got us!” Gregory cried.

  “A piece has penetrated the magneto-box—or else the petrol leads have been torn away!” Charlton yelled above the din.

  The plane began to plunge. Charlton managed to right it and for a moment the “Archies” continued to scatter shells all round them. One piece of metal smashed a window but the searchlights still held them and the gunners, seeing that they were now coming down, ceased fire.

  In a strange silence which seemed unnatural after the roar of the guns and shells the machine rapidly lost height. The pinpoints of light below and the dark land, which they sensed rather than saw, seemed to be rushing up to meet them. The further lights disappeared and Charlton flattened out. For a minute both men held their breath in frightful suspense, knowing that they might be dead before they could count a hundred. There was a terrific bump; the sound of tearing metal. The cabin floor lifted beneath their feet and the whole plane turned right over.

  Gregory’s head hit the roof of the cabin with a frightful crack and he was temporarily half-dazed by the blow. Scrambling to his knees he crouched in the dip of the upturned roof, swaying his aching head from side to side, until he heard Charlton yelling at him.

  The airman had kicked out the fragments of the shattered window and scrambled through it. He turned now and was grabbing at Gregory’s shoulders. With an effort Gregory stumbled up, pulled on his shoe, and, aided by Charlton, wriggled out of the wrecked plane. In the struggle they fell together in a heap and rolled a few yards down the slope upon which the plane had come to grief.

  When they had checked themselves and blundered, panting, to their feet Charlton was swearing profusely; but Gregory was laughing—laughing like hell—positively rocking with Satanic glee.

  “So you had to land me after all, damn you!” he gasped. “And by refusing to turn round when I asked you, you’ve ditched yourself into the bargain.”

  “You fool!” snarled Charlton. “You suicidal maniac! We’ll be caught inside ten minutes.”

  “No, we shan’t,” said Gregory firmly. “It’s black as pitch and we’ll find plenty of places in which to hide. This time tomorrow night we’ll be back in Berlin.”

  “What a hope!” Freddie Charlton was almost stuttering with rage. “I couldn’t move a mile in this accursed country without arousing suspicion. I can’t speak a word of German.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll talk for us both.”

  “You’ll be talking to the Gestapo before you’re an hour older.” Charlton jerked his arm out savagely, pointing towards a cluster of moving lights that had suddenly flashed out less than a hundred yards away. “Those are the German gunners coming to take us prisoner.”

  “The Devil!” exclaimed Gregory. “I thought they were a couple of miles away. Come on! Run!”

  Chapter II

  Hunted

  Instinctively, as he began to run, Charlton turned away from the advancing Germans but Gregory grabbed his arm and pulled him sharply to the right.

  “This way!” he grunted. “Our best chance is to try to put the crest of the hill between us and them. We’ll get a few minute’s start while they’re examining the wrecked plane.”

  For a hundred yards they ran on in silence, then Charlton muttered: “How’s that wound of yours?”

  “Not too good.” Gregory panted. “I wrenched it when we crashed and it’s started to bleed again, but I reckon I can do about a couple of miles. I wish to God that instead of listening to Erika you’d had the sense to bind it up for me.”

  “Your girl-friend wouldn’t let me,” Charlton snapped impatiently. “I told you; her one thought was to have you out of this, and I don’t wonder. If you were as dangerous to her as you’ve been to me she’d have been better off running round with a packet of dynamite in the seat of her drawers.”

  “Let’s save our breath till we’re clear of the Troopers,” Gregory snapped back. “We’ll have plenty of time for mutual recrimination later on.”

  Charlton accepted the suggestion and they plodded on side by side up the grassy sl
ope. Suddenly a few distant lights came into view, which told them that they had reached its crest. At that moment there was a loud explosion behind them.

  For a second the whole landscape was lit up as brightly as though someone had fired a gargantuan piece of magnesium tape. Both of them automatically halted and looked back. They were just in time to catch the after-glow of the central flash and see a tall column of lurid flame shoot up towards the sky.

  “That’s the plane,” said Charlton bitterly. “Those blasted gunners must have just about reached it. I hope to hell the explosion put paid to some of them.”

  As he spoke a shot rang out; another; and another. Outlined against the sky they had been sighted in the flash of the explosion. The bullets whistled round them and with a sharp whack one tore through the skirt of Charlton’s leather jacket.

  Gregory flung himself flat. “You hit?” he called anxiously, as Charlton flopped down beside him.

  “No. It was a near thing, though. What filthy luck that we happened to be right on the sky-line just as the plane went up! If we’d crossed the crest a moment earlier or a moment later we might have got away unseen.”

  “Anyway, we’re spotted now and the hunt is up,” Gregory muttered, and they began to wriggle quickly forward on their stomachs.

  Bullets hummed and whistled through the grass but the flames from the burning plane lit only the slope up which they had come and the far side of the crest was in almost total darkness. The Boches were now firing blind, so there was little chance of their scoring a hit, and when the two fugitives had progressed about twenty yards down the further side of the slope they were sufficiently under cover to be safe again for the moment.