by John Pearson
‘And what’s that, sir?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘That you go with him. Since you rescued him, you’re the one Westerner he trusts.’
‘Biggles, by all that’s good and holy, how wonderful to see your ugly mug again!’ ejaculated Algy as he saw his old pal sitting in the briefing room at Scotland Yard. ‘I thought you were still on your business jamboree in the south of France! What are you doing here? We were dragged back from Trinidad for some confounded new assignment the old boy’s cooked up. It wouldn’t be anything to do with you, by any chance?’
‘Afraid it is, old thing. At least, indirectly. It looks as if you’re going to have to put up with me again on a temporary basis for a week or two. Sorry and all that, but the boss-man will explain when he arrives. I think you’ll find we’re off to Turkey — along with Ginger and the admirable Bertie. Raymond and I have been completing the arrangements. It could be rather interesting — oh, and this time we’ll have an extra member of the team.’
‘Not Nobby Smyth? That would be terrific!’
‘No, Algy, no such luck. He’s far too busy rolling in the shekels like the sensible fellow he is. No, the old firm’s got a new recruit.’
‘Cripes, Biggles!’ Algy groaned. ‘Not another of Raymond’s wonder-boys, still wet behind the ears? You could have spared us that!’
‘No Algy, this one’s all right. Tough as they come and you know him rather well. Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein. Apparently he felt that since he couldn’t beat us, he’d better join us.’
Algy was still recovering from shock when the Air Commodore arrived — along with Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie — and the morning passed in detailed planning of the operation.
‘No need for me to emphasise the desperate importance of this enterprise,’ said Raymond. ‘You could say that the future security of the West depends on your success. James here has very decently agreed to take command.’
He looked around and gave his cold reptilian smile.
‘I take it, gentlemen, that that will meet with your approval?’
Three heads nodded their assent in unison.
‘Excellent! James seems to think the ideal aircraft for the operation would be a four-engined R.A.F. Hercules. It’s slower than a comparable jet but it has all the space and lifting power you’ll need and it’s adaptable and rugged, and can land almost anywhere. Bertie and Ginger, you’ve been trained for underwater operations and will be using standard Naval breathing gear. We’ve been discussing the retrieval of the missile from the lake-bed with the experts in the Royal Marine Commando, and they seem to think that it will present no great problem. They have their apparatus — lifting tackle, inflatable dinghies and so forth — and one of their best men, Major William Armstrong, will be travelling with you and taking charge of that side of things.’
‘Is he O.K., sir? Algy queried.
‘I wouldn’t suggest him if he weren’t,’ said Raymond with distinct acerbity. ‘Bit of a rough diamond, like all Marine Commandos, but you can take it from me, my boy — Bill Armstrong knows his onions. Now, there’s one further matter of considerable importance. I’ve been in contact with the Turkish government, and Turkey, as you know, is officially one of our N.A.T.O. allies. But — and it’s a big “but” I’m afraid — the last thing that they want is trouble with their Russian neighbours. So, very wisely in the circumstances, the Turks have said that they don’t want to know about you. The Hercules will have civilian markings and it’s up to you to be efficient and discreet. The last thing we can possibly afford is a diplomatic incident, and if anything goes wrong — and pray the Lord it won’t — the Foreign Office will disown you, and so, I’m afraid gentlemen, will I. Is that understood?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Algy, somewhat unenthusiastically. ‘But there’s one more important question — von Stalhein. I appreciate the need for working with him, but are we certain we can trust him? Just suppose he were a double agent after all? It’s not impossible.’
Raymond nodded.
‘Nice point, Algy, and the answer is we can’t be absolutely certain. We’ve checked and double-checked his story — so has the C.I.A. — and we’re sure as dammit that he’s genuine, but we’ve all been in this racket long enough to know that no one can be absolutely trusted.’
‘But surely, sir,’ said Biggles staunchly, ‘with someone like von Stalhein, whom we rescued from a Russian gaol ourselves, that’s inconceivable? Besides, we’ve checked his story about the Budnik and we know the Russians lost one exactly when he said.’
‘Agreed,’ said Raymond, ‘but since Algy asked the question, I have given you the proper answer. Trust nobody!
‘Where do we meet him, sir and when?’ asked Ginger.
‘In three days’ time in Istanbul. That should give you time to finish all your preparations, and you can fly to Turkey on Friday morning. The Americans will be delivering him there late that same afternoon. He will be staying that night at the Park Hotel under the name of Ingrams. You’re at the Istanbul Hilton. That way, you’ll have a chance to meet him properly, finalise your plans, and have a good night’s sleep and make an early start next morning. Any further questions?’
Algy shook his head.
‘You seem to have thought of everything, sir.’
‘I do my best,’ replied the Air Commodore, with a modest smile.
‘Well, what d’you think of her, old scout?’ bawled Algy over the racket of the thundering engines.
Biggles raised a gnarled thumb.
‘Not a bad old ship,’ he shouted back. ‘She’s certainly no bally Concorde, but she’s solid, I’ll say that for her.’
As he spoke, the last of the great grey pinnacles of the Alps had disappeared behind them in the glare of a perfect north Italian morning, and the chequerboard of Lombardy stretched green and succulent to the horizon. Ginger, Bertie and the heavy-featured Major Armstrong were sitting in the crew seats and behind them, in the big plane’s cavern of a cargo-hold, were stacked the packing-cases with the battery of equipment they required — rubber dinghies, two long wheel-based Land Rovers, underwater apparatus, lifting giear and a small armoury of weapons — ‘just in case’, as Biggles put it when he had supervised the loading earlier that morning.
Everyone was in the best of spirits, for jaunts like this were now becoming rare, and it was wonderful to be united as the chums had been in days gone by. Biggles was particularly euphoric, and however much he might pretend to be a businessman, there was no mistaking the expectant gleam in his hazel eyes at the prospect of a spot of action. He was still wonderfully preserved, and as Algy glanced towards that chiselled profile framed in the battered wartime flying helmet, he found it difficult to credit all the years that they had been together. The face was just a little fuller than when he had first caught sight of it at Maranique so many years before — only its enemies had changed. Once there were Halberstadts and Fokker triplanes. Now, that same face was questing missiles that could fly above the speed of sound. But there was something reassuring in the rock-like indestructibility of his oldest friend, his voice, his sayings, even his outbursts of ill-humour. No, he told himself, they don’t make chaps like Biggles any more.
Algy was interrupted from his reverie by the first gleam of the Adriatic under the starboard wing-tip. It was considered far too risky to fly over Yugoslavia and Bulgaria — there was no point in offering the opposition even the faintest chance of tracking them — so they continued down that narrow sea, skirted Albania, then went grinding on across the mountains of northern Greece. Algy was navigating and he got all the old airman’s satisfaction when Biggles brought the lumbering aircraft in to a perfect landing at Istanbul slap on schedule, late in the afternoon. Thanks to some neat liaison with the British Embassy, the Hercules was taken charge of by a troupe of swarthy gentlemen in white mechanics’ overalls, and twenty minutes later a discreet saloon was dropping the four friends by the outlandish gridiron of the Istanbul Hilton with its view across the Bospho
rus.
‘Everything gone like clockwork, eh, old scout?’ said Biggles as he stretched himself and stepped out on his balcony to take in the stupendous view. ‘Always a bad sign if my experience is anything to go by. Still, let’s make the most of it. Ring for room service, Algy, there’s a good fellow. What’re you all drinking, Ginger, Bertie? How about a bottle of good champagne to start this whole affair in style?’
None of the chums took much persuading, and the bellboy was soon speeding on his way to execute their bidding. Two minutes later he was back with a glistening bottle on a silver tray.
‘Mr Bigglesworth?’ he said inquiringly.
Biggles nodded.
‘A package for you, sir — left at reception a few minutes ago.’ He handed Biggles a neatly tied brown parcel addressed in a florid European hand. ‘Anything else that you require, sir?’
Biggles shook his head and tipped the bellboy handsomely. ‘I’ll deal with the champagne myself,’ he said, then added, as he turned to Algy, ‘Who the devil can be sending me a present? No one’s supposed to know I’m here.’
‘Perhaps it’s a little keepsake from old Raymond,’ Algy replied. ‘You never know quite how the old thing will behave these days.’
‘More likely to have been left by von Stalhein for services rendered,’ chuckled Ginger. ‘Here, let’s have a look.’
But Biggles was already tugging at the wrapping.
‘Deuced difficult to open,’ he exclaimed. ‘Why will people use this blasted sellotape?’
In fact it was the sellotape that saved his life, for suddenly he froze, and then a moment later dashed across the room and hurled the parcel over the balcony.
‘What the devil are you up to, Biggles?’ asked an appalled Algy, who thought that his old chum had suddenly gone mad.
The answer to his question came from the street below — a quick explosion followed by the sickening noise of falling glass — and when the chums peered down, they saw a cloud of thick black smoke rising from the pavement.
‘Crikey, Biggles!’ Algy said, aghast. ‘Thank God your reactions are as good as ever. That would have blasted us to kingdom come.’
Biggles nodded grimly. ‘There was something ticking inside it, and half-a-pound of fulminate of mercury by the smell of it. Nice little visiting card to welcome us to Istanbul.’
‘But who the heck d’you think left it?’ Bertie asked.
‘Somebody who knows exactly why we’re here and disapproves of what we’re up to, my dear Watson,’ replied Biggles, breaking the tension with a somewhat artificial smile. ‘We were about to have a drink. I think we need it,’ he added, pouring the foaming liquid with a rocklike hand.
‘Mr Ingrams,’ said Biggles, thrusting out his hand. ‘It’s good to meet you after all this time. I trust you’re well.’
‘Ah, Mr Bigglesworth. The pleasure is entirely mine.’
The one harsh voice was softened by an unmistakable New England burr, and neatly brushed back grey hair had replaced the aggressive Prussian haircut Biggles knew so well. The duelling scars had disappeared, the nose was different and the gold-rimmed spectacles completely changed the aspect of those flinty eyes. Grey-suited, faintly hesitant, he could easily have been a prosperous American on holiday. Only the ramrod back and something familiar about the chin told Biggles that this was certainly von Stalhein.
One of the oddities about the Park Hotel — a heavily Germanic building in the centre of the city — is that it has its foyer on the ninth floor, and its restaurant on the first, so when introductions were completed, the party solemnly descended in the lift and entered the all but empty restaurant together. It was an awkward gathering to start with — despite the abundant Black Sea caviar Biggles had ordered in an attempt to liven the proceedings, for apart from the strangeness of working with a former enemy, the little expedition’s recent brush with death had made them nervy, and no one felt like small-talk.
‘Not good, not good at all,’ von Stalhein said, shaking his head as Biggles told him of the bomb attack. ‘You were all lucky to escape, but we must assume from this that the Russians know exactly why we’re here. The Turks had no idea, I take it, who left the parcel at the Hilton?’
‘None at all,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s the devil of it, and the police are taking it quite seriously. This sort of trouble with the authorities is just what we didn’t want.’
Von Stalhein sucked his teeth — a mannerism Biggles remembered of old.
‘You’ve no idea, of course, how this leak occurred?’ he asked finally.
Biggles shook his head. ‘Far too many people knew about this project from the start. Our people, the Americans...’ He raised his hands resignedly.
‘And me’ said von Stalhein softly. ‘Come now, gentlemen, we’re in this together, and we must be frank with one another. If I were in your place I’d be suspicious and there’s not much I can do to reassure you.’
‘I’d believe your word as an officer and a gentleman,’ said Biggles stiffly.
‘Ah, but would you in your heart of hearts? And even if you did, what about the others?’
‘Well, what the devil do we do?’ replied Biggles angrily. ‘Call the whole thing off because the Russians have found out about us, and we don’t trust each other? That’s ridiculous.’
‘But it could be the wisest course,’ said von Stalhein slowly. ‘Whatever happens, we are going to be up against a most determined enemy. Perhaps the odds against us are too great. You must decide.’
A long silence followed his remarks, broken in the end by Bertie Lissie.
‘Never heard such blinking nonsense in all my life,’ he drawled. ‘If this confounded missile thing is as important as everyone says, how can we possibly back out? Von Stalhein here says that he knows exactly where it is, and we’re equipped to bring it back. For God’s sake, let’s get on with it and cut the cackle!’
Biggles nodded.
‘My own thoughts in a nutshell, dear old chap,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t faced a spot of danger on and off in days gone by. Agreed, Ginger, Algy, Bill?’
The others nodded as one.
‘Excellent. Then that’s decided gentlemen!’ He faced von Stalhein. ‘That’s our decision, and we’ll trust you until you give us cause to do otherwise. Should that happen, you can expect no mercy from us. Fair enough?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied von Stalhein, with something of the old Prussian glitter in his eyes.
‘One thing we can do,’ continued Biggles, ‘is to win at least a certain element of surprise. We’d planned to fly at dawn. It mightn’t be a bad idea to act as if that’s still the plan, but meet here at eleven and depart at midnight. Oh, and one further thing, von Stalhein — as I’m sure you know, people who work with me call me Biggles — that goes for you as well.’
Von Stalhein gave one of his rare, slow smiles and finally replied, ‘O.K., Biggles. And my name’s Erich.’
It was raining heavily and a bitter wind was blowing from the Golden Horn, but take-off went without a hitch. Algy was navigating and had checked his course in detail with von Stalhein, while Biggles secured last minute clearance from the Turks — despite objections from a desperately anxious security officer from the British Embassy.
‘Confounded diplomats are all the same,’ growled Biggles as he eased the lumbering aircraft off the runway and the chums saw the rainswept lights of Istanbul recede below them.
‘How long d’you think we’ll take?’ he bawled to Algy.
‘Six hours at least,’ came the reply. ‘We should arrive just after dawn. According to Erich there’s a landing place that we can use about ten miles from the lake, but there’s a track of sorts that’ll be all right for the jeeps. Once we arrive it shouldn’t take too long. This time tomorrow night we could be on our way back to England, home and beauty.’
‘Touch wood quickly,’ Biggles answered with a grin. ‘Now, the rest of you had better get some sleep,’ he shouted. ‘It looks as if we’ll h
ave a busy day ahead of us.’
Biggles was in his element at last, but as the great plane thundered eastwards at a height of 20,000 feet, more than one anxious pair of eyes was following its course on radar screens along the way.
‘Sorry, Bertie,’ Biggles said, ‘but it seems that you’re the odd man out. Somebody must stay behind to guard the plane, and Algy and Ginger both have work to do with their underwater gear when we reach the lake.’
‘Suits me, Biggles,’ replied the peer, stretching a lengthy leg and yawning. ‘Never have been one for water. That’s why 1 joined the R.A.F. you know. I’ll be O.K.’
‘Good man!’ said Biggles, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Are we ready, Bill? Let’s go!’
It was barely six o’clock, but an enormous orange-coloured sun was already glaring like a bloodshot eye across the plain and lifting the shadows from the distant mountains. The flight had passed without an incident and, half an hour before, Biggles had brought the aptly-named Hercules in for a perfect touch-down on the boulder-strewn plain. The chaps had breakfasted on steaming coffee from the galley, and everything was ready. No sooner had the aircraft rumbled to a halt, than the rear door on the fuselage swung open, ramps went down, and the first of the laden Land Rovers rolled out with Armstrong at the wheel. Algy followed in the second. For the journey, Biggles and von Stalhein travelled with Bill Armstrong, and Ginger in the second vehicle with Algy.
It proved a bumpy, often scary, journey, for the track was barely fit for mules and at times the Land Rovers were slithering and grinding round hairpin bends with nothing but the sheerest drop beneath them. Several times the passengers got out to push and Biggles was grateful to have von Stalhein there to lead the way.
