CHAPTER TEN

The Spanish diplomat was enraged.

Jose Felix Antonio Maria di Liguori y Ortiz, the Minister of Foreign Affairs in the military junta of Spain’s Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had come to Paris for a series of secret meetings with Admiral Jean-Francois Darlan, leader of the armed forces of Vichy France. His private plane was scheduled to depart from Orly Airport in a quarter of an hour, and yet his limousine was stuck on Autoroute du Sud halfway between the Porte d’Orleans and Orly Airport.

And not just stalled on the highway, but in the middle of a tunnel! The gleaming black Citroen Traction Avant UN limousine just sat there, its engine block ticking, the hood up, while the driver hunched over the engine trying to bring it back to life.

The minister glanced at his watch and nervously touched his extravagantly curled, waxed mostacho. “Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed. “Caray! What the hell is going on?”

“My apologies, Your Excellency!” the driver shouted. “It seems to be the transmission. I am doing all I can!”

“My plane is scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes!” the Spaniard retorted. “Make it quick!”

“Yes, sir, of course,” the driver said. In a lower voice he muttered to himself in French, “The goddamned plane’s not going to leave without him, for Christ’s sake.” There were three others in the Spaniard’s delegation, and they were stuck in the car immediately behind. So they were all going to be late. Big deal.

The driver, whose name was Henri Corbier, cursed the imperious Spanish fascist, with his ridiculous mustache. Ever since

Ortiz had arrived in Paris, two days earlier, he’d been ordering everyone around. He was truly insufferable.

Today, the driver had been forced to sit for eight hours in the cold in front of some damned government building while Ortiz met with some assholes from the Vichy government and a bunch of Nazi generals. The Spaniard wouldn’t even allow him to go to a cafe. No, he had to sit there in the cold, waiting. And with petrol so scarce, he couldn’t even keep the engine running!

So when a friend of his, who shared his contempt for the Bodies and the way they’d ruined Paris, asked Henri to do a minor favor, he wasn’t just willing, he was downright ecstatic. “Nothing illegal,” Henri was assured. “Just stall the limousine on the way to the airport. Make the goddamned Spanish fascist nice and late for his scheduled departure. That way our friends at Orly will have the time to do what needs to be done to the fascist’s Junkers Ju-52; never you mind what that means. Ignorance is your best protection. No one will ever be able to prove that the car didn’t have engine trouble.”

Henri would have done his part for free, but when they offered him a nice fat Christmas ham if he did his patriotic duty, he was thrilled. Nothing like getting paid in the most valuable commodity of all scarce ham for doing something you want to do anyway.

“What’s taking you so long?” the minister shouted.

Henri toyed with the engine, pretending to adjust one of the cylinders. “Soon!” he shouted back. “I think I have it figured out.” Under his breath, he added: “Putain de merde!”

The old Renault Juvaquatre barreled up to the sentry booth that blocked the access road to Orly Field. Two German military policemen snapped to attention.

Metcalfe, still dressed in the stolen Gestapo uniform, rolled down the window. “Heil Hitler!” he called out, his face a mask of bland authority as he flashed the Gestapo badge.

The MP saluted, replied, “Heil Hitler!” and waved the vehicle through.

It was as Metcalfe had expected. The badge was not inspected, no questions asked. No MP was going to risk his job, or his neck, harassing a high-ranking Gestapo officer who was obviously there on business.

“Well done,” said the car’s other passenger, who was also its owner. Roger “Scoop” Martin was a tall, rangy man with curly red hair, prematurely receding at twenty-eight, he was barely older than Metcalfe and a sallow complexion, his cheeks pitted with acne scars. Martin was an ace R.A.F pilot who’d just been assigned to the SOE, Britain’s Special Operations Executive, the sabotage and subversion agency formed by Winston Churchill just a few months earlier. Martin lived in Paris; as his cover, he worked as a medecin-chef for Le Foyer du Soldat, helping feed and treat prisoners of war, visiting wounded men in hospitals. In this capacity he was one of the few Parisians allowed to operate a private car.

“That was the easy part,” Metcalfe said. His eyes roamed the asphalt-paved parking lot. Ever since taking over France, the Nazis had turned Orly Field from a commercial airport into a military base. The only flights into and out of Orly now were military or the occasional government dignitary. Wehrmacht soldiers patrolled the area with MG-34 light machine guns, Schmeisser 9mm pistols, or MP-38 submachine guns; the field was crowded with troop transport vehicles, Skoda and Steyr trucks, three-ton Opel Blitz trucks.

“There it is,” Roger said, pointing at a gate built into the chain-link fence that protected the runways and aircraft hangars.

Metcalfe nodded as he turned the wheel. “Awfully good of you to do this for me, Scoop,” he said.

“Like I had a bloody choice,” Martin grumbled. “Corcoran gets on the blower to Sir Frank, and next thing I know I’m to fly to goddamned bloody Silesia.”

“Oh, you’d have done it for me anyway,” Metcalfe said with a sly smile. Roger had used his SOE channels to convey Metcalfe’s urgent message to Alfred Corcoran about the nightmarish carnage at the Cave, as well as to inform him about an alteration in his plans. Corky would have to make arrangements in Moscow for one more visitor.

“Hmph. There’s a limit to friendship,” the pilot replied morosely.

Metcalfe knew well his friend’s bone-dry sense of humor. Roger Martin often played at being the martyr, complained about his lot in life, but it was all attitude. In truth, Roger was about as loyal a friend as there was, and he loved what he did. He played poker the same way, moaning about his lousy hand right up until he played a royal flush.

Roger was born and educated in Cognac, of a French mother and an Irish father, and his ancestors had been cognac makers in France since the eighteenth century. He had dual citizenship, spoke French like a native, but considered himself British. Ever since he’d first seen a biplane soaring above the skies over Nord-Pas-de-Calais, he’d dreamed of flying. Uninterested in the family business, he’d become a pilot for Air France, then served with the French Air Force in Syria, where, after the Nazis moved into France, he joined the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve and, after a course of training, became a Special Duties pilot with the R.A.F’s “Moon Squadrons.” Based in Tangmere, on the south coast of England, he flew a “Lizzie,” a tiny single-engine Westland Ly-sander, during the evacuation of Dunkirk, dropping supplies to embattled troops defending Calais. Plenty of Lysanders were lost, but not Scoop’s. He’d racked up thousands of hours flying perilous nighttime clandestine missions into Europe, dropping and extracting British agents. No one was better than Roger Martin at taking off and landing on rough, muddy French farm fields under the nose of the enemy, illuminated only by torchlight. But Scoop was typically modest about his famous skills. “Any bloody fool can drop Joes over France,” he’d once told Metcalfe.

“Though scooping them out of there can be a bit hairy.” Roger became known for accomplishing the impossible, for executing pickups on the most difficult terrain. His wing commander had dubbed him Scoop, and the moniker had stuck.

“I don’t know how the hell you plan to pull this off,” Scoop groaned as they got out of the Renault. Painted on the outside of the car was the insignia of Le Foyer du Soldat and the Red Cross emblem.

“All you have to do is keep your mouth shut,” Metcalfe said. “You can do that, mon vieux.”

Scoop grunted.

“You’re my pilot. I’ll handle the rest.”

They approached the next checkpoint, an MP who stood at attention beside the gate. He saluted when he saw Metcalfe, nodded as Metcalfe flashed the badge, and pulled the gate open for the men.

“Which hangar are we going to?” Metcalfe muttered under his breath.

“Damned if I know,” Scoop replied. “We know the tail number of the craft, the scheduled time of departure, and that’s about it.” He fell silent as they approached another checkpoint. This time Metcalfe simply gave a brisk salute and the MPs did the same.

Once they had passed and were crossing a grassy field next to the paved runway, Scoop continued: “I suggest we stop at the first hangar we come to and ask. As far as anyone knows, I’m an ill-informed pilot reporting for duty.”

His voice dropped as they passed a knot of German officers who were smoking and laughing heartily. They were admiring several risque French postcards, fanned in the pudgy hands of a round-faced SS Gruppenfuhrer. Metcalfe froze when he recognized the SS man. It was one of his many Nazi acquaintances, the portly Brigadier General Johannes Koller.

Quickly Metcalfe turned his face away, pretending to be deep in whispered conversation with Scoop. He realized it was only a matter of time before he saw someone he knew but not now, not here!

Scoop noticed the distress in Metcalfe’s face. He looked puzzled but said nothing.

It was likely that the Gruppenfuhrer, busy showing off his postcards, had not noticed Metcalfe. Even if he had gotten a look at Metcalfe’s face, the Gestapo uniform would have surely confused him; the uncertainty would keep him quiet.

Finally they reached the last security checkpoint, which was more elaborate: an open booth on the edge of the tarmac, manned by two MPs. Once they were past it, Metcalfe and Scoop had only to locate the correct hangar. Metcalfe tensed. If the MPs asked to examine his stolen badge or papers, it was all over. The photographs of the dead Gestapo agent did not resemble him at all.

But the military policeman who was clearly the one in charge simply gave a salute and waved the men through. Metcalfe let out his breath noiselessly just as he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Roller, walking quickly toward him, the other officers following close behind.

Metcalfe quickened his own stride. “Go,” he whispered to Scoop.

“What?”

“Run ahead. You’re a pilot who’s late for his assigned flight. I can’t run it’ll look suspicious.”

“You’re mad “

“Just do as I say. I’ll catch up to you.”

Scoop shrugged, shook his head in perplexity, and broke into a half-run, half-walk, the hurried movement of a man who was late. Metcalfe, meanwhile, kept up his steady, determined pace.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

Metcalfe turned, saw the MP who had just waved him through. Next to him stood Koller, pointing at Metcalfe.

Metcalfe shrugged, looked perplexed, and didn’t move. He bowed his head as he pretended to fish something out of his pocket. Must keep my face as concealed as possible! Metcalfe glanced over his shoulder, saw Scoop entering one of the hangars, and again considered running. But there was no point to that; he and Scoop would simply be caught. In any case, it was too late. Roller and the MP were advancing toward him. “I know this man!” the Gruppenfuhrer said. “He is an impostor!”

“Sir,” the MP said. “Come here, please. May I see your papers?”

“This is a joke of some sort?” Metcalfe replied in a loud, strong voice. “Come now. I have important business.”

The two men came beside him. “Yes, that is Eigen! Daniel Eigen! I knew it was him!”

“Your papers, sir,” the MP repeated.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Eigen?” Roller said, staring at him. “Your criminal actions are “

“Silence, you fool!” Metcalfe roared. He lunged forward, reaching into the Gruppenfuhrer s tunic and pulling out the lewd postcards. He tossed them into the air. Then he sniffed loudly, his face next to the German’s. “Look at what this degenerate spends his time doing!” he snapped in German, addressing the guard. “And smell his breath he is drunk.”

Roller’s face turned crimson. “How dare you “

“Whether this is some sort of intra service prank or simple sabotage, consider the source! A drunken degenerate who tries to delay the Reich’s work.” He pointed at Roller. “You, whoever you are and whatever your degenerate intentions, have no business interfering with security business of the utmost urgency! As our Fuhrer says, the future belongs to the vigilant.” He shook his head in disgust. “Gott im Himmell You disgrace us all.”

With that, Metcalfe turned on his heel and strode away, in the direction of the hangar he had just seen Scoop enter. But his ears remained attuned to shouts, running footsteps, any signs that his ruse had failed. He could hear Johannes Roller still arguing with the guard, his voice rising until he sounded apoplectic with rage.

Metcalfe’s counterattack had worked, but it had probably done no more than buy him a minute or two.

That was better than nothing. The difference between success and failure might be as slim as a few seconds.

Metcalfe ran full out. The hangar straight ahead of him was a large barrel-shaped structure built of prestressed, reinforced concrete. In the early day sit had been used as a hangar for dirigibles. Now it held the Junkers Ju-52/3m on which the Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs had been scheduled to depart this very moment.

But El Ministro was unavoidably detained, his pilot, Metcalfe now saw, lying slumped on the ground against the concrete wall of the hangar, a black-haired man in a leather jacket. What had Scoop done to the man? Had he killed him? Scoop was a pilot, not an operative, but if it was necessary to take a life, he would do so.

As Metcalfe approached, he heard the plane’s three powerful engines roar to life. The ugly slab-sided craft jolted ahead, rolling forward. Scoop was in the cockpit, visible through the Plexiglas canopy, waving wildly at him to get in. Scoop was shouting as well, though the engine drone made his words inaudible.

The plane was some sixty feet long, almost twenty feet high. On its corrugated light-alloy metal skin were painted the words iberia line as aere as espanol as This was a German-manufactured craft in the service of the Spanish national airline, probably left over from the Spanish Civil War.

Madness! Scoop expected him to leap into a moving plane. There was no choice; Metcalfe could see several guards running toward him, brandishing their weapons. Dodging the giant propeller blades, he raced past the low, cantilevered wing and grabbed hold of the cabin hatch door, which had been left open. No ramp was in place, nor was one necessary. He pulled himself up, hoisted himself into the cabin as the plane accelerated on the tarmac, pulled the hatch closed behind him, and bolted it.

He could hear the explosion of bullets pitting the plane’s duralumin skin. The craft was lightly armored, built to withstand ordinary gunfire, though nothing much heavier. The engines revved, whined. Through the small Plexiglas window he could see the runway fly by. The interior of the cabin was equipped with a dozen or so seats and was, by the standards of most Junkers planes, almost luxurious. Metcalfe ran forward, but a sudden lurch threw him to the cabin floor. Crawling the rest of the way, he finally made it to the cockpit.

“Strap in!” Scoop shouted as Metcalfe leaped into the copilot’s seat. Another volley of gunfire strafed the nose nacelle. Fortunately, the cockpit sat high, canted upward, out of the line of fire. Through the Plexiglas, he could see the source of the barrage: three or four MPs firing off their machine guns from a hundred feet away.

Suddenly Metcalfe realized that they were headed directly toward the guards. Scoop seemed to be aiming for them! As the plane hurtled forward, the men scattered, diving to the ground on either side, unwilling to risk their lives in a foolhardy attempt to stop fifteen thousand pounds of runaway plane.

As Metcalfe strapped in, he could hear Scoop speaking into the radio, but he couldn’t make out the words. The engine drone grew high-pitched as the plane accelerated, the throttle pushed full open. Scoop pulled back on the controls to set full flaps and achieve a climbing angle. There was another spatter of gunfire against the fuselage, somewhere to the rear, and the plane lifted off.

The engine noise had abated somewhat. “Jesus Christ almighty, Metcalfe,” Scoop said. “What the hell did you get me into?”

“You did it, Scoop.”

“Barely.”

“But you did it. Are we cleared for takeoff, by the way?”

Scoop shrugged. “Our flight path is cleared, but I had to make a premature departure. We should be okay for a while.”

“A whikr

“I don’t think Luftwaffe air traffic control is going to order us shot down. Too much uncertainty. A Spanish plane cleared to take off, the reports will be conflicting “

“You don’t think?”

“Like it or not, Metcalfe, we’re in the middle of a war. Fortunately, we’ve got civilian markings, so my buddies in the R.A.F won’t be shooting us down. It’s the damned Nazis I worry about. We’re flying a goddamned stolen plane through Nazi-controlled airspace. You know what that could mean.”

Metcalfe chose to ignore the warning; after all, what could he do about it at this point? All they could do was hope for the best and count on Scoop’s extraordinary skill. “You’ve flown one of these before?”

“Oh, sure. “Tante Judy The corrugated coffin. No, actually, I haven’t, but close enough.”

“Jesus,” Metcalfe groaned. “How far can this thing take us?”

Scoop was silent for a minute. They were still climbing. “Eight hundred miles or so, with the auxiliary fuel tanks.”

“We’re going to just make it to Silesia.”

“Barely.”

“Even then, assuming we get there safely and we’re able to refuel, it’s going to be dicey.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s another eight hundred miles or so. It’s going to be close.”

“Eight hundred miles to where? I thought Silesia was the final destination.”

“No,” said Metcalfe. “I have a date. With an old girlfriend.”

“Have you gone barmy on me, Metcalfe?”

“No. You’re taking us to Moscow.”