by John Pearson
‘What d’you mean, old boy?’ asked Biggles.
‘Well,’ replied Ginger thoughtfully, ‘it seems to me that Raymond has been taking us too much for granted. In the old days he was fairly human, but he’s becoming impossible now, and since the department’s been successful — largely thanks to us — he’s been treating all of us like blinking sheep. I don’t like it — and I sympathise with Biggles.’
‘Thanks Ginger,’ replied Biggles sombrely. ‘You can see it if the others don’t — although I do mean what I said about von Stalhein. No, Algy, I’ve had enough of Raymond and his confounded job. If you chaps can take it, then good luck to you. Perhaps I’m just a bit old-fashioned, but I don’t like the way that things are going, and I’ve no intention of being treated like a blinking doormat at my time of life.’
‘You mean you’re serious about resigning?’ Algy said, aghast.
‘Absolutely, dear old boy. Never been more serious in my life.’
Biggles’ resignation from the Special Air Police was carefully hushed up, although the papers did their best to make a story of it. There were several angry scenes when journalists tried to nobble the Air Commodore at his flat in Duke Street, St James’s, to question him about it, and there was speculation in one Sunday newspaper that the Special Air Police was undergoing what it called ‘internal difficulties’. There were even rumours that Algy Lacey, Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie were about to leave as well in sympathy with their old friend. But these rumours came to nothing, and Biggles insisted that the whole argument was purely between himself and Raymond.
‘No point at all in dragging you into it, old scout,’ said Biggles stoically to Algy. ‘It’s not your battle, and besides, the Special Air Police would utterly collapse if all of you pulled out, and that would never do.’
‘But Biggles,’ Algy said with genuine concern, ‘what are you going to do? You need looking after, and without your chums to keep an eye on you, you’re simply bound to end up in some frightful pickle.’
Biggles smiled and patted Algy’s arm.
‘There, there, my dear old chap,’ he said. ‘It’s decent of you to speak like that, and I do appreciate it, but I’ll be all right, and it’s not as if we’ll not be seeing one another. I’ll still be living in the flat — if you’ll put up with me — and I’m probably too old for the temptations of this wicked world. Besides, I’ve got a job already, and I’m rather looking forward to it.’
‘You’ve got what?’ exclaimed Algy incredulously.
‘A job. Rather a good one as it happens, and with somebody you know.’
‘I don’t know anybody in his right mind who’d offer you a job, old scout,’ said Algy smiling with relief. ‘Who is it?’
‘Our old pal Nobby Smyth. He rang me up the moment he heard that I was leaving Scotland Yard. They always say that when you’re up against it you discover who your real friends are.’
‘Well, good for Nobby,’ answered Algy. ‘Always did say he was one of the best. What sort of job?’
‘Oh, he requires what he calls a sales executive. Blowed if I know exactly what it means, but I gather I’ll be a sort of salesman for his firm. Bags of foreign travel, fat expense account, nineteen-year-old secretary and a company car — the usual racket. I’m rather looking forward to it all.’
‘That’s absolutely capital! You can become a prosperous fat businessman at last. It’ll rather suit you, Biggles.’
‘Suit me be damned!’ growled Biggles. ‘Still, it’s better than the dole, and as Nobby says, I’ve got a lot of contacts in the airline business round the world. You never know, one day I could even be touting you for business.’
‘You might at that. By the way, one thing I meant to ask you. How did old Raymond take it when you handed in your resignation? You never told me.’
‘Not much to tell you, dear old chap,’ replied Biggles with a frown. ‘The blighter wouldn’t see me. Said we had nothing to discuss. Rum way of behaving when you think of it, but if that’s the way he feels ...’
Algy’s doubts nothwithstanding, Biggles was surprisingly successful as a businessman, and much as he pretended to despise his new-found trade, he actually enjoyed himself. One week he would be off to Bangkok discussing aero-engines with an old acquaintance who was now the chief executive of Thai Airlines. The next he would be in South America selling fuel tanks to Argentinians, and from there he would double back to Washington to look up several contacts with the Pentagon. Old fliers form a sort of international trade union, and everywhere that Biggles went he found friends who would go out of their way to help him and provide fresh business.
At the same time, his relations with his new boss could hardly have been better. Business was booming, and although it was several years yet before Nobby Smyth received his inevitable knighthood, he was already quite a power in the land. It was a situation that could easily have been difficult — particularly with somebody as touchy as Biggles — but fortunately Nobby Smyth possessed considerable respect for his old C.O. He also realised his value to the firm, and Biggles was allowed to be very much his own master, with his own small office in the Smyth Organisation H.Q. in Park Lane, and all the other business perks that he expected — including the effective use of the company’s De Havilland Dove whenever he felt like flying.
The only drawback to this whole new way of life was that he inevitably started to lose contact with his chums in Mount Street. He saw them frequently of course, and often treated them to lunch. His kit remained in his old den at the flat, and when he was in London he used it as his home. But, although no one would admit it, the fact was that Biggles was in a very different world now from the others. They had the excitements of their work, he had his business to attend to and, naturally, their paths diverged. It was hard to tell how much this worried Biggles. Sometimes it seemed as if he really missed the thrills and camaraderie of days gone by.
‘Lucky blighter,’ he would say to Algy as he donned his dark blue suit and grabbed his briefcase for an early-morning business conference. ‘It’s all right for you, off playing cops and robbers. I’ve got to earn my living by the sweat of my blinking brow.’
But as time went by, he seemed less and less interested in the work of the Special Air Police — so much so that sometimes, when Algy started telling him about his latest exploits, Biggles would have to hide a yawn. Algy noticed this of course, and became upset, but there seemed nothing anyone could do to set things right, and he resigned himself to the gloomy thought that their old partnership was over. The final disappointment came when Algy mentioned summer holidays. For as long as either could remember, Biggles and Algy had always taken them together, and Algy not unnaturally assumed that this would be happening again. His three weeks’ leave was due at the end of June, and he mentioned it to Biggles.
‘Sorry, old scout, you’ll have to count me out this year,’ he answered somewhat shiftily.
‘Count you out, Biggles? Why? Doesn’t Nobby give wage-slaves like you a summer holiday? I’ll have to have a word with him!’
‘No, don’t do that old boy,’ said Biggles quickly. ‘Fact is that Norah’s invited me down to Cannes for a sort of house party affair, you know.’
‘Norah!’ expostulated Algy. ‘Who the hell’s Norah?’
‘Norah Smyth, old boy. Nobby’s wife. You must remember her. It’s rather expected of a chap to go when his employer and his wife invite him specially. Confounded bore, of course. You simply must excuse me.’
So that year Algy went on holiday to Trinidad with Bertie Lissie, while Ginger held the fort at Scotland Yard with several of the new, less colourful members of the Force. And Biggles was at Cannes, living the so-called ‘good life’ to the hilt. In fact, it rather suited him. The Smyths were extremely rich by now and entertained extensively. Not all their guests were Biggles’ cup of tea, but most of them were mixed up in the world of aeronautics so he was not exactly bored. His old pal, Wilkinson, last seen before the war reorganising the Bolivian A
ir Force, and now a big wheel in a South American airline, was staying at the Eden Roc with his fourth and very nubile wife, and Marcel Brissac of the Sûreté was camping en famille near Cannes. Biggles wined and dined, mixed business gossip with reminiscences of the past, and generally enjoyed himself. He even gambled once or twice at Monte Carlo, recalling as he did so those far-off days before the war when he and Algy had been young and carefree, spending the profits they had made from Biggles and Co. in the gilded precincts of the salles privées. He missed Algy now, and one night when he and Nobby Smyth had spent a happy evening on their own, dining together at the Chapon Fin, and losing a small fortune at roulette, he became slightly maudlin on the subject of his ancient crony.
‘Dashed pity that it had to break up as it did, Nobby old thing,’ he said gloomily. ‘Of course I couldn’t be more grateful to you and Norah for everything you’ve done, but you must know how I feel’.
Nobby nodded sympathetically. He was a rather dapper figure now in his midnight blue tuxedo, and Biggles found it hard to picture him as the young mechanic in the greasy overalls he had originally known at Maranique.
‘Truth is, you know Nobby, I miss the past — flying, risking one’s neck, facing an honest enemy, even being broke. It was fun, wasn’t it? Whereas now ... Confound it, Nobby, I’m getting old.’
‘Nonsense Biggles,’ answered Nobby loyally. ‘You’re the best sales executive we’ve got, and I’ve a surprise for you. I’ve been talking things over with Norah and the Board. We’d like to offer you a full directorship.’
‘A what?’ expostulated Biggles.
‘You heard me. We’d like you on the Board of the Smyth Organisation What do you say about it, Biggles? We’d be very honoured.’
‘Poppycock, my dear old chap!’ replied Biggles gruffly. ‘You’re being very kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept.’
‘But why not? You must excuse me speaking to you like this, but the past is over. Algy and Ginger have their lives to lead — and so do you. Why not allow yourself to make the best of it?’
Biggles nodded.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Any objection if I take a day or two to think things over?’
‘None at all. And now perhaps we should be getting back to Norah. Oh, incidentally Biggles, perhaps we shouldn’t tell her quite how-much we lost tonight. Women like Norah worry about such things.’
But when the two men returned to the apartment on the Grande Corniche, they found that the motherly Norah Smyth had other matters on her mind.
‘Biggles,’ she said excitedly, ‘so there you are! Someone’s been ringing you all evening from London. Seemed in quite a state. He’s trying you again at midnight.’
‘Stone the crows, Norah!’ answered Biggles wearily. ‘Can’t they ever let a fellow be? Who on earth was it?’
‘He refused to leave a name, but I think I recognised the voice.’
‘Really Norah? That’s extremely clever of you. Who was it?’
‘Your old friend, Air Commodore Raymond.’
‘Ever thought of joining the old Club, James?’ said Air Commodore Raymond. ‘Now you’ve become so high and mighty you might well consider it.’
‘Join the Blazers’ Club, sir? But I’m hardly in that league. Dash it all, it’s the most exclusive club in London.’
‘Come, come James! You mustn’t underrate yourself, and since I’ve become chairman of the membership committee I think it can be arranged without much difficulty. It could be useful to you now you know, my boy.’
It was the following evening, and Biggles was already kicking himself for allowing Raymond to talk him into breaking off his holiday to fly back to London at a moment’s notice. His old boss had always known how to twist his arm — and on the telephone had made it sound a matter of life and death. Biggles had done his best to sound extremely cool. (Indeed, until that moment he had always sworn he’d never speak to the Air Commodore again.) But once the rasping voice began to talk of ‘a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you’, Biggles really had no chance. The Smyths had been most understanding when he had said apologetically, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better see what the old devil wants’. Nobby had insisted that he took the Dove, and even drove him into Nice next morning in his own Rolls Royce.
But, now that Biggles found himself tackling a tornedos in the all too familiar surroundings of the Adam dining-room, he wondered what the fuss was all about. One thing he knew for sure, the Air Commodore hadn’t summoned him from the Riviera simply to propose him for the Blazers’ Club. But, as usual, Raymond had to take his time, and it was not until the port was circulating that he allowed himself to speak his mind.
‘Quite like old times, eh what?’ he said, polishing his monocle on his napkin. ‘We miss you, James, you know.’
‘That’s kind of you, sir’, Biggles answered coolly.
‘And when one thinks of the successful coups we’ve planned here in this very club. That record breaking flight you made to Singapore, the von Sternberg business — you know, James, it takes you back.’
‘Quite,’ said Biggles, wondering what was coming next.
‘But something has cropped up, something that could make everything we’ve done before pale into insignificance.’
‘Really?’ said Biggles, trying to disguise his natural interest, but knowing Raymond’s habit of hyperbole.
‘I’ve finished with the Force, sir,’ he replied. ‘Ginger and Algy and young Bertie Lissie are extremely competent, and this new job of mine is most demanding.’
‘Balderdash, James, and you know it!’ thundered Raymond. ‘Chaps like us never leave the Service. You have a duty, James, a patriotic duty, and I’m appealing to it now.’
‘To do what, sir?’
‘To help us. You’re the only one who can.’
‘I like to think I’ll always do my duty,’ Biggles answered stiffly. ‘But tell me how.’
‘Well James, it’s difficult. You see, I realise I owe you an apology over the von Stalhein business. You were quite right and I was wrong. All through his debriefing last year he was asking to see you., I, as you know, refused. Since then he’s been living in America. The C.I.A. officially requested a chance to interrogate him too, and we agreed. He’s been at their place in Vermont. Just a few days ago I heard from them. They’re in a devil of a state.’
‘That makes a change,’ said Biggles grinning cynically.
‘No, but seriously, they are. And all because of our old friend, von Stalhein. You probably don’t know, but von Stalhein’s proved a mine of information to the West — not only over the usual names of agents and spy networks that one expects from a defector, but also for specific information on the East’s offensive hardware. He’s an incredible chap, von Stalhein — sharp as they come and memory like an I.B.M. computer.’
Biggles nodded.
‘You don’t have to tell me anything about von Stalhein, sir. I’ve never underestimated him. Why has he put the wind up our friends in Washington?’
‘Because of what he’s been telling them about the Russian missile system — and in particular about their new top secret effort known as the Budnik.’
‘Go on,’ said Biggles.
‘He didn’t mention it to us, but the Americans kept on at him and from what I hear, the Budnik is the weapon to end all weapons. It’s compact — about twelve feet long — but it has nuclear capability and flies above the speed of sound. More to the point, it’s ninety per cent accurate up to three thousand miles, and proof against all known methods of detection and defence, including radar. So, you can understand why the Pentagon’s in such a tizz.’
‘Absolutely,’ Biggles answered. ‘It presumably puts the Russians streets ahead of anything the West possesses and upsets the apple-cart between the super-powers. Very tricky.’
‘And to make it trickier still,’ said Raymond, ‘the East is stolidly denying its existence in the current round of disarmament talks in Prague. You can see the Budnik’s what our
allies call “a hot potato”.’
‘Of course,’ said Biggles nodding shrewdly, ‘but why are you telling me this? I can’t believe you brought me back from France simply to lecture me on Cold War strategy.’
‘Ah, sharp as ever, James!’ the Air Commodore exclaimed, lighting a Fiorita from the eighteenth-century candelabra in the middle of the table. ‘No, dear boy, there’s a method in my madness, for it seems that you, and you alone, have suddenly become a key figure in this whole schemozzle. According to von Stalhein, our good friends the Russians did quite a lot of early testing of the Budnik near a place called Sukhumi on the Black Sea, and eighteen months ago one of them went adrift — some sort of design fault. But instead of heading for the Caucasus, it doubled back and landed somewhere in Turkish Anatolia. Naturally, they tried to get the damned thing back but it was difficult. To start with, Turkish Anatolia’s an enormous place with a lot of virtual desert, and no one seemed to know where the Budnik landed. Secondly, the Russians had to be extremely careful with the Turkish government. They’re not the best of friends, and if a gang of Russians had gone scouring the country looking for a top-secret missile of this sort, there’d have been hell to pay. So, the Russians turned for help to their old friends, the East Germans, and between them they cooked up a so-called archaeological expedition to Eastern Turkey. Von Stalhein was in charge of it.’
‘And did they find what they were looking for?’ asked Biggles.
‘Officially not,’ replied the Air Commodore. ‘Remember that by then von Stalhein knew the skids were under him, and that he had his private doubts about his Russian masters. No, after two months scouring the country, he and his expedition returned to Germany and he reported there was no sign of the missing missile. Not long after this, he was arrested, and you know the rest.’
‘What’s all the fuss about then?’ Biggles asked impatiently.
‘Well,’ replied Raymond, pouring himself another glass of vintage port, ‘according to an excitable gentleman who came to see me yesterday from the C.I.A., von Stalhein is now saying that in fact he did find the Budnik — or at any rate, knows where it is. He claims that it’s intact and lying in a shallow mountain lake a hundred or so miles to the south of Lake Van. He wouldn’t tell the Russians, but the Americans are clamouring for him to help them find it. He’s apparently agreed on one condition.’
