Biggles (44 page)

‘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 Bosphorus.

‘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 have 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.

‘Not far now, Biggles,' he would say imperturbably, as he put his shoulder to the rear of the Land Rover and helped to heave it back onto the track, its wheels spinning on the shaley surface of the mountainside. Puffing away beside him, Biggles could do little but admire the older man's resilience.

But finally the track began to level out, and soon they were travelling across a sort of rocky up and covered with patchy scrub and boulders. They had to ford a stream and finally reached a headland, and the water of the lake lay blue and very clear below them.

‘This is the place,' von Stalhein said with brief excitement in his cold grey voice.