Biggles (43 page)

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.'

‘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.'