The Cairo Code (35 page)

“What about the Dakota?”

Helen Kane shook her head. “They don't seem to know what happened to it either. Alex Coastal Command is suggesting the Dakota could have been an intruder, and they've asked Cairo RAF HQ to put out an alert for either aircraft, or their wreckage, in case they were destroyed or crash-landed because of the storm. They thought we'd like to know about it.”

Weaver went to the wall map. He studied it for several moments as he considered the information, then looked back, mildly excited. “Check with RAF HQ and find out if they've come up with anything more on the Dakota.”

“And if they haven't?”

“Ask if they know its heading when the Beaufighter first made contact, and if they've any further information they can give us.”

“I'll do it straight away.”

Weaver tossed his cap aside, his excitement growing. He could check out the Arab suspect later. “Then call Sanson and tell him to get here as fast as he can.”

Halder woke with a terrible headache, a savage breeze blowing sand in his face. The cockpit glass had shattered and he was still strapped into the wireless operator's seat. The aircraft was turned over on its left side, and his head was badly bruised where it had cracked against one of the overhead panels. Remer hung from his seat harness at a grotesque angle, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes wide open in death, and Falconi was slumped in his seat and groaning in pain.

Halder shielded his face from the gritty wind and called out, “Are you hurt, Vito?”

“My foot's caught. I can't move.”

Halder undid his harness and moved forward. Falconi's right foot was trapped under one of the rudder pedals, which was a tangle of twisted metal, and there was a deep, bleeding gash below his knee. Halder took off his belt and tied it firmly above the cut to try to stop the bleeding, then attempted to work the foot free, but it was no use. “It's too tight. I'll need help.”

Falconi stared at his copilot's body. “The poor boy. He was only twenty-two.”

“Not your fault in the circumstances. You did well to get us down.”

“Even the Devil has his bad days. I think the port wing slewed into a sandbank, just after we hit the deck.”

The storm raged outside and Halder turned anxiously towards the cabin door, Rachel's fate the only thing on his mind. “Try not to move. I'll see if the others made it.”

•  •  •

He moved back through the cabin fuselage. It was in better shape than the cockpit, crumpled in places but still completely intact. Kleist was helping Doring to his feet and Rachel was nursing a bleeding cut on her head. She looked to be in shock.

“Are you all right?” Halder asked.

“I held on tight as we went in, but it didn't stop me from being thrown about when we crashed. What happened?”

He told her and she frowned. “I don't understand. Why didn't the plane catch fire?”

“The fuel lines were ruptured and the tanks bled empty. At least you can thank the RAF for that. Let me have a look at your head.” He examined the wound. “It doesn't look too bad. How do you feel?”

“Like someone's hit me with a hammer.”

He loosened the cotton scarf at her neck, placed it on the wound, and put her hand on top. “Hold on to that until the bleeding stops.” He helped her up, then said to Kleist and Doring, “Are either of you injured?”

“A few bruises, but we're alive,” Kleist said sullenly. “I was right about those Italian pilots. They're completely useless.”

“Things could have been a lot worse, so be grateful. Get up front and give me a hand. The copilot's dead and Falconi's trapped.”

They went up to the cockpit, and with Kleist's help Halder tried to prize Falconi's leg free of the mangled pedal, but it was awkward in the confined space and both men could barely move. Falconi's face was a film of sweat and he looked in terrible pain. “It's no use, Jack. You'll need a lever of some sort.”

“I'll see if I can find something outside in the wreckage.”

“We can't stay here all day,” Kleist protested. “Once the storm dies down, there could be a patrol along to investigate.”

“We'll worry about that later.” Halder turned to Falconi. “Any idea where we are, Vito?”

“About six miles north of the drop zone.”

“We'd never make the rendezvous on time, that's for sure. Trying to cross the desert in this weather is only asking for trouble.”

“There's an Arab village maybe eight miles west of here. I know the place from before the war. You could try and make it on foot. After that, heaven only knows. But you'd better leave me, Jack. I'd only slow you down.”

Halder shook his head. “We free you first, then I'll decide.” He turned to Kleist. “Wait here. I'm going outside.”

Halder went out into the cabin, but Kleist followed him and grabbed his arm.

“Listen, Halder, the pilot's going to slow us down once we try to move. His foot's broken by the looks of it, and he's losing blood.”

“And what are you suggesting?”

“We leave him behind. He said so himself. But better if we kill him. I told you, I don't trust those Italians. He probably has it in mind to give us away if the Allies find him, and try to save his own neck.” Kleist gestured a knife across his throat. “I'll do it myself. Just say the word.”

Halder pulled free. “You're a callous brute, Kleist.”

“Our lives are threatened by remaining here,” Kleist persisted. “So the sooner we try to move, the better. That fighter probably reported our incursion before it crashed. There could be enemy aircraft waiting to search the area once the weather clears. If they spot the wreckage, there're going to be patrols swarming all over this place before you know it. And remember, we're enemy agents. The Allies shoot the likes of us, or hadn't you heard?”

“You're still under my command,” Halder replied curtly. “I'll have no more talk about killing anyone. And no one moves anywhere until I reckon our chances in the storm. Now wait here. That's an order.”

Halder went back through the cabin, past Rachel and Doring, forced open the fuselage door, covered his mouth and nose with his arm, and jumped down. The weather was ferocious outside, and he found it difficult to move, but at least the wreckage offered some cover. There was a smell of oil and kerosene in the air. The Dakota had tilted over on one side. One half of the left wing had completely sheared off, and what remained of it was twisted metal. He found a piece of torn-off slat, then hurried back into the cabin and shut the door against the wind.

Kleist waited, looking unhappy. “Well, what's the verdict?”

“We wouldn't stand a chance trying to move, not in these conditions. Better to wait until the storm dies down. Now give me a hand and we'll try to free Falconi.”

•  •  •

It took them over half an hour, and by then Falconi's foot was badly bruised and swollen. The bleeding hadn't stopped, and when Halder helped him out of the seat, the Italian cried out, agony on his sweat-battered face.

“Go easy, Jack!”

They carried him out into the cabin and Halder tightened the belt on Falconi's leg and checked the injured bone. “Apart from a deep cut, it seems you've got a fracture or a break, I'm not sure which.”

“Whatever it is,
amico,
it feels sore.”

The storm appeared to have died down a little. Kleist went to the cabin door, peered out. He said to Halder, “When are we going to move?”

“As soon as we can rig up some kind of stretcher.” He pointed to the cargo webbing along the fuselage walls. “See what you can do with that.”

“Get sense, Halder. I told you, he's going to slow us down.”

“He's right, Jack,” Falconi agreed. “You'd stand a better chance without having to look after a cripple.”

Halder ignored him and said sternly to Kleist, “Obey the order.” He jerked a thumb at Doring. “And you, give him a hand.”

Kleist turned away in anger, and he and Doring began to remove some of the webbing, ripping it from the walls. Rachel found a dressing and a wooden splint in the first-aid kit and bandaged Falconi's foot.

“Grazie, signorina.”

“Try not to move, otherwise you'll end up making things worse.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“No matter, you're an angel.”

“Don't you Italians ever stop being charming?”

“It's in the blood, I'm afraid.” Falconi managed a weak smile. “We learn to seduce women from the cradle.”

Rachel went over to Halder. “What now?”

“Vito reckons there's a village about eight miles west of here. How long it'll take us to get there carrying him on a stretcher is anybody's guess. It would have made sense to have tried the landing site first, just in case our contact decided to hang around. He might have been able to get us medical help. But for that to work, we'd need transport, so we'll have to give it a miss.”

“What if there are troops in the village?”

“A distinct possibility, but we'll just have to take the chance.”

“And if we're challenged or questioned?”

“We stick to our cover stories.”

“Don't you think you're being over-optimistic? For one, how do we explain crashing in the desert?”

Halder smiled. “A good question, and I'll try and think of something. Meantime, let's get Vito comfortable.”

Kleist and Doring came back with a crude webbing stretcher that almost resembled a hammock. “That's the best we can do,” Kleist said gruffly.

“We'll take turns carrying him. What's the weather like?”

“Weakening.”

Halder said to Doring, “There's a standby magnetic compass in the cockpit. It may come in useful if it's still working. See if you can remove it. If not, we'll have to use the sun as a guide.”

Doring went into the cockpit, and Halder beckoned Kleist to help him carry Falconi out through the fuselage door. They placed the webbing on the sand and laid Falconi on top. The wind had died down, the sun had risen, and the visibility was greatly improved. Halder moved around the aircraft. Empty desert lay all around, but he thought he saw what looked like a wadi, maybe a mile away, a few date palms silhouetted against the dawn sky.

He went back. Doring appeared carrying a small, bulbous compass. “Well?”

“It looks like it's still working, but it's difficult to be certain.”

“We'll have to take our chances.” He told the others about the wadi. “If we're in luck, there'll be water and we can fill our canteens, then we head west. Everyone make sure they have their belongings and let's move out.”

Halder and Kleist carried the makeshift stretcher between them. It sagged without any wooden supports, and Falconi had to keep his injured foot hanging over the side. It took them almost an hour to reach the wadi. It was no more than a half-dozen date palms, some rough camel thorn bushes, and a few clumps of scorched grass, but there was a small freshwater pool that hadn't entirely dried up.

“You'd better fill your canteens and rest for five minutes.”

They drank from the pool and filled their canteens. The heat was already starting to increase. Halder wiped his brow and checked his watch: almost seven-thirty. Falconi started to drift in and out of consciousness. He didn't look too good.

Rachel felt his temperature. “He's cold.”

“It's the blood loss. Let's not waste any more time.” Halder checked the compass for west, then said to the others, “On your feet.”

They'd hardly gone twenty paces when Doring shouted, “We've got company, Major!”

Halder noticed a vehicle in the near distance, kicking up a dust cloud in its wake, and his heart sank. They laid Falconi down and watched a British Army Jeep race towards them, its pendant flying, a couple of uniformed officers in front. One of them was standing, holding on to the vehicle's windshield, his pistol drawn.

“Billiant,” said Kleist. “Well, what now, Major? Any bright suggestions?”

Halder wiped sweat from his face. “Just keep your heads.” He knelt beside Falconi. The Italian was conscious, but only just. He patted his cheek. “Vito, we've got a problem on its way—a couple of British officers in a Jeep. Can you understand me?”

Falconi's eyes flickered, barely focusing.
“Si.”

“Keep your eyes shut, act like you're unconscious. Moan if you have to, but don't say a word.”

Falconi was bathed in a cold sweat, his voice weak. “That—that won't be difficult,
amico.”

“The rest of you, leave the talking to me.”

The Jeep came to a halt and the British officer in the passenger side climbed down. His captain's uniform was covered in dust and he held a Smith & Wesson revolver in his hand. Halder went to move forward but the officer said, “Stay right where you are and don't move. Hands in the air, all of you.”

When they obeyed, the captain stepped closer and studied them suspiciously. “Who the bloody devil are you lot?” he demanded.

“Thank God you found us,” Halder exclaimed. “I'm Professor Paul Mallory, and these are members of my archeological team. Our aircraft crashed.”

The captain was still wary. “Is that a fact?” He flicked a glance back at his comrade. “You'd better search them, Hugo. See if they've got any weapons.”

“Now see here,” Halder protested. “We've just come through the worst experience of our lives—”

“Just shut up for now, please. For all I know you could be enemy agents. There's still a war on, you know.”

The second officer was a fresh-faced lieutenant in his early twenties. While the captain covered them with his revolver, he got out of the Jeep and searched each of them in turn, including Falconi, disarming him of the Colt automatic and taking all their wallets and riffling through their identity papers. He came to Rachel last, and looked back at the captain uncertainly.