A Matter of Honour (33 page)

The six SAS men continued to stare
cautiously out of the side windows. They had been briefed to pick up a lone
Englishman called Scott who would be waiting for them, and then get out fast. It
sounded easy enough but it couldn’t be that easy otherwise they wouldn’t have
been called in.

The pilot swung the Beaver round to the
south and put the nose down. He smiled when he spotted the burnt-out Spitfire
that had been left derelict on the corner of the runway. Just like the ones his
father used to fly during the Second World War. But this one had obviously
never made it home. He descended confidently and as the little plane touched
down it bounced along not because the pilot lacked experience but because the
surface of the runway was so badly pitted.

Flight Lieutenant Banks brought the plane to
a halt about two hundred yards from the hangar and swung the fuselage round a
full circle ready for that quick getaway the captain seemed so keen to execute.
He pressed the button that cut the propellers’ engines and turned the lights
out. The whirring slowed to an eerie whisper. They were forty-three minutes
early.

Adam watched the new arrivals suspiciously
from the cockpit of the Spitfire some four hundred yards away. He wasn’t going
to make a run for it across that open ground while the moon shone so brightly.
His eyes never left the little unmarked plane as he waited for some clue as to
who the occupants might be. He estimated it would be another fifteen minutes
before the moon would be shielded by clouds. A few minutes more passed before
Adam watched six men drop out of the blind side of the aircraft and lie flat on
the tarmac on their stomachs. They were correctly dressed in SAS battle kit but
Adam remained unconvinced while he still recalled Romanov’s chauffeur’s
uniform. The six soldiers made no attempt to move. Neither did Adam as he was
still uncertain which side they were on.

All six men on the ground hated the moon and
even more the open space. The captain checked his watch: thirty-six minutes to
go. He raised his hand and they began to crawl towards the hangar where
Pemberton had said Scott would be waiting, a journey which took them nearly
twenty minutes, and with each movement they made they became more confident
that Pemberton’s warning of an enemy waiting for them was unjustified.

At last a mass of clouds reached the moon
and a shadow was thrown across the whole airfield. The SAS captain quickly
checked his watch. Five minutes to go before the rendezvous was due. He was the
first to reach the door of the hangar and he pushed it open with the palm of
his hand. He wriggled in through the gap. The bullet hit him in the forehead
even before he had found time to raise his gun.

“Move, laddies,” shouted the second in
command, and the other four were up in a flash, firing in an arc in front of
them and running for the protection of the building.

As soon as Adam heard the Scottish brogue,
he jumped out of the cockpit and sprinted across the tarmac towards the little
plane whose propellers were already beginning to turn. He jumped on the wing
and climbed in by the side of the surprised pilot.

“I’m Adam Scott, the man you’ve come to pick
up,” he shouted.

“I’m Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks, old chap,”
said the pilot, thrusting out his hand. Only a British officer could shake
hands in such a situation, thought Adam, relieved if still terrified.

They both turned and watched the battle.

“We ought to get going,” said the pilot. “My
orders are to see you are brought back to England in one piece.”

“Not before we are certain none of your men
can make it back to the plane.”

“Sorry, mate. My instructions are to get you
out. Their orders are to take care of themselves.”

“Let’s at least give them another minute,”
Adam said.

They waited until the propellers were
rotating at full speed. Suddenly the firing stopped and Adam could hear his
heart thumping in his body.

“We ought to get moving,” said the pilot.

“I know,” replied Adam, “but keep your eyes
skinned. There’s something I still need to know.”

Years of night marches made it possible for
Adam to see him long before the pilot.

“Get going,” said Adam.

“What?” said the
pilot.

“Get going.”

The pilot moved the joystick forward and the
plane started moving slowly down the crumbling runway.

Suddenly a dark figure was running towards
them firing long bursts straight at them. The pilot looked back to see a tall
man whose fair hair shone in the moonlight.

“Faster, man, faster,” said Adam.

“The throttle’s full out,” said the pilot,
as the firing began again, but this time the bullets were ripping into the
fuselage. A third burst came but by then the plane was going faster than the
man and Adam let out a scream of delight when it left the ground.

He looked back to see that Romanov had
turned around and was now firing at someone who was not wearing an SAS uniform.

“They couldn’t hope to hit us now unless
they’ve got a bazooka,” said Flight Lieutenant Banks.

“Well done, well done,” said Adam turning
back to the pilot.

“And to think my wife had wanted me to go to
the cinema tonight,” said the pilot laughing.

“And what were you hoping to see?” asked
Adam.

“My Fair Lady.”

“Isn’t it time for us to be going home?”
asked Piers, removing his hand from the member’s leg.

“Good idea,” he said. “Just let me settle
the bill.”

“And I’ll pick up my coat and scarf,” said
Piers. “Join you upstairs in a few moments?”

“Fine,” he said. Catching the eye of the proprietor
the member scribbled his signature in the air. When the ‘account’ appeared – a
bare figure written out on a slip of paper without explanation – it was, as
always, extortionate. As always, the member paid without comment. He thanked
the proprietor as he left and walked up the dusty, creaky stairs to find his
companion already waiting for him on the pavement. He hailed a taxi and while
Piers climbed in the back he directed the cabbie to Dillon’s bookshop.

“Not in the cab,” he said, as his new friend’s
hand began to creep up his leg.

“I can’t wait,” said Piers. “It’s way past
my bedtime.”

“Way past my bedtime,” his companion,
repeated involuntarily, and checked his watch. The die must have been cast.
They would have moved in by now: surely they had caught Scott this time and,
more important, the
... ?

“Four bob,” said the cabbie, flicking back
the glass.

He handed over five shillings and didn’t
wait for any change.

“Just around the corner,” he said, guiding
Piers past the bookshop and into the little side street. They crept down the
stone steps and Piers waited as he unlocked the door, switched on the lights,
and led the young man in.

“Oh, very cosy,” said Piers.
“Very cosy indeed.”

Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks stared out of
his tiny window as the plane climbed steadily.

“Where to now?” said Adam, relief flooding
through his body.

“I had hoped England but I’m afraid the
answer is as far as I can manage.”

“What do you mean?” said Adam anxiously.

“Look at the fuel gauge,” said Alan Banks,
putting his forefinger on a little white indicator that was pointing halfway
between a
quarter
full and empty. “We had enough to
get us back to Northolt in Middlesex until those bullets ripped into my fuel
tank.”

The little white stick kept moving towards
the red patch even as Adam watched it and within moments the propellers on the
left side of the aircraft spun to a halt.

“I am going to have to put her down in a field.
I can’t risk going on as there are no other airports anywhere nearby. Just be
thankful it’s a clear moonlit night.”

Without warning the plane began to descend
sharply. “I shall try for that field over there,” said the flight lieutenant,
sounding remarkably blase as he pointed to a large expanse of land to the west
of the aircraft. “Hold on tight,” he said as the plane spiralled inevitably
down. The large expanse of land suddenly looked very small as the plane began
to approach it.

Adam found himself gripping the side of his
seat and gritting his teeth.

“Relax,” said the pilot. “These Beavers have
landed on far worse places than this,” he went on, as the wheels touched the
brown earth. “Damn mud. I hadn’t anticipated that,” he cursed as the wheels lost
their grip in the soft earth and the plane suddenly nosedived forward. A few
seconds passed before Adam realised he was still alive but upside down swinging
from his seat belt.

“What do I do next?” he asked the pilot but
there was no reply.

Adam tried to get his bearings and began to
rock his body backwards and forwards until he could touch the side of the plane
with one hand while gripping the joystick with his feet. Once he was able to
grab the side of the fuselage he undid the belt and collapsed onto the roof of
the plane.

He picked himself up, relieved to find
nothing was broken. He quickly looked around but there was still no sign of the
pilot. Adam clambered out of the plane, glad to feel the safety of the ground.
He scrambled around for a considerable time before he found Alan Banks some
thirty yards in front of the aircraft motionless on his back.

“Are you all right?” asked the pilot before
Adam could ask the same question.

“I’m fine, but how about you, Alan?”

“I’m OK. I must have been thrown clear of
the aircraft. Just sorry about the landing, old
chap,
have to admit it wasn’t up to scratch. We must try it again some time.”

Adam burst out laughing as the pilot slowly
sat up.

“What next?” Banks asked.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Alan, gingerly
lifting himself up. “Damn,” he said, “it’s only my ankle but
it’s
sure going to slow me down. You’d better get going without me. That bunch back
there with the arsenal can only be about thirty minutes behind us.”

“But what will you do?”

“My father landed in one of these bloody
fields during the Second World War and still managed to get himself back to
England without being caught by the Germans. I owe you a great debt of
gratitude, Adam, because if I can get back I’ll be able to shut him up once and
for all. Which
lot are
chasing us this time, by the
way?”

“The Russians,” said Adam who was beginning
to wonder if perhaps there was a second enemy.

“The Russians – couldn’t be better. Anything
less and Dad wouldn’t have accepted it as a fair comparison.”

Adam smiled as he thought of his own father
and how much he would have liked Alan Banks. He touched the icon instinctively
and was relieved to find it was still in place. The pilot’s words had only made
him more determined to get back to England.

“Which way?” asked Adam.

The pilot looked up at the Great Bear. “I’ll
head east, seems appropriate, so you’d better go west, old fellow. Nice to have
made your acquaintance,” and with that he limped off.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can last,
Comrade Major.”

“You must try to hold on, Valchek. It’s
imperative that you try. We cannot afford to stop now,” said Romanov. “I know
that plane isn’t far. I saw it falling out of the sky.”

“I believe you, Comrade, but at least let me
die a peaceful death on the side of the road, rather than endure the agony of
this car.”

Romanov glanced across at his colleague who
had been shot in the abdomen. Valchek’s hands were covered in blood, and his
shirt and trousers were already drenched as he tried helplessly to hold himself
in. He continued to clutch on to his stomach like a child who is about to be
sick. The driver had also been shot, but in the back while attempting to run
away. If he hadn’t died instantly, Romanov would have put the next bullet into
the coward himself. But Valchek was a different matter. No one could have
questioned his courage. He had first taken on the British flat on their
stomachs and then the Americans charging in like the seventh cavalry. Romanov
had Mentor to thank for ensuring that they had been there first. But he must
now quickly warn him that someone else was also briefing the Americans.
Romanov, however, felt some satisfaction in having tricked the Americans into
turning their fire on the British while he and Valchek waited to pick off the
survivors. The last survivor was an American who fired at Valchek continually
as they were making their getaway.

Romanov reckoned he had a clear hour before
the French, British and Americans would be explaining away several bodies on a
disused airfield. Romanov’s thoughts returned to Valchek when he heard his
comrade groan.

“Let’s turn off into this forest,” he
begged. “I cannot hope to last much longer now.”

“Hold on, Comrade, hold on,” repeated Romanov.