Beneath Gray Skies (31 page)

“In any case,” said Goering to Schwister, smiling, “if this really is a curse, like that ridiculous story just coming out of London about that Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb, you should be grateful we’re moving it out of the museum for you. Let someone else have the bad luck, if it exists at all, which I doubt.”

“I agree with you, Herr Goering, that this whole story is complete rubbish. But an interesting find, don’t you think?” indicating the piece of paper.

“Indeed so. Maybe we shouldn’t pass it on to the Americans, though? Maybe you’d like to keep it, Herr Professor?”

“Thank you, I shall. In memory of our sad loss,” replied Schwister, pointedly.

The workmen continued their repair work on the crate and the others watched them for a time. As they turned and started to walk out of the room, a piercing scream split the air. The younger workman dashed past them, shouting for help. “Quickly! A doctor! Otto’s just hammered a nail through his thumb!”

“
In order to destroy the bastards, you have to learn to think like them.”

T
he fan in the basement office currently occupied by Henry Dowling seemed to have stopped working, and he desperately needed some fresh air to restart his brain. Christopher’s wedding was only a few days away, and he was away with Virginia, busy preparing for the event.

Dowling locked away the documents he’d been working on, and made his way to the water cooler in the hallway. After drinking a couple of glasses, he poured some onto his handkerchief and mopped his face, letting out a sigh of pleasure as he did so.

“Feels better, huh?” It was Summers, Vernon Gatt’s assistant.

“Yes, it certainly does. I don’t know how you chaps manage to survive this bloody climate.” Dowling’s British accent and mannerisms always seemed strengthen while he was near Summers, who made little effort to hide the fact that he regarded the whole business as an American operation and resented the intrusion of foreigners.

“Well, I guess you and I are about the same on this matter of the weather. Up in Maine, it’s nowhere near as hot as this town.” He took a glass and filled it with water. “What’s the latest from Cordele?”

Although the American service originated the content of the communications to Brian Finch-Malloy in Cordele from Washington and received his replies, Dowling had strongly resisted any attempts to make the British encryption method available to the Americans. As a result, all traffic from Cordele passed through British (that is to say, Dowling’s) hands before reaching the Americans, given that Brian was familiar with the British systems, and it was considered too risky to introduce new complications at this stage. Added to which, the American cryptographic techniques hadn’t changed since the beginning of the century, while the British had the dubious benefit of having fought a major European war relatively recently and had greater experience in secure systems of communication. However, since Summers would be the first one on the American side to receive the information formally, Dowling was happy to let him have an informal précis of the last report.

He summarized, “The airship’s departure and arrival dates are still not fixed, but there’s some interesting cargo coming along with the Nazi bigwigs. Valuable and needs a special secure building and guard detail. All the details of what and where are probably going to come in the report from Berlin, of course, not from Cordele. Nice to have the independent confirmation, though. We knew something along these lines was going to happen.”

“What about the security around the landing field?”

“At the moment, non-existent, it seems. Our man—sorry, your man,” Dowling corrected himself under the disapproving eye of Summers, “is able to get up close to the shed and the mooring mast construction quite easily at the moment.”

“Sounds interesting. When does the official report arrive on my desk?” Summers sounded a little testy. “If we’re going to act on this, we need to move fast.”

“Indeed we do,” Dowling agreed with a heartiness he didn’t altogether feel. “Right now, if you want. I’d just finished typing out the final draft. It’s in my safe. Let’s go and get it.”

They went into the office, where Dowling spun the combination wheels of the safe. Summers ostentatiously looked away.

“There you go,” said Dowling, handing a few sheets of paper over to Summers. “Don’t leave them on the bus.” He caught Summers’s glare and apologized. “Sorry. Our British sense of humor takes some getting used to, I think.”

Summers grunted in reply, reading the papers. “What would you do now, if it was up to you?” he asked Dowling as he came to the final page.

“Well, I’d probably go for the shed first, before the airship gets there.”

“What do you mean, ‘go for’?”

“Destroy the damn’ thing, of course. A few pounds of explosive at the right points, and the whole structure crashes to the ground in the middle of the night with an almighty bang. It would take them a long time to get the mess cleared up and a new shed built.”

“Why the shed as your first target?” Summers was persistent.

“Because at a pinch the airship can land without a mooring mast, and it can be kept in the shed. But if it lands with the mooring mast, and bad weather comes up, there’s no place to store it safely. And if they need to do any maintenance or repair work, they need the shed. That’s why it’s my first target. And, if you think about it, it’s a wonderful morale-buster. The bloody thing’s the size of a cathedral, and to see it falling down is going to be a real blow to the poor buggers who’ve sweated over getting it ready in time. Not to mention wonderful photographs round the whole world.”

“And the helium extraction plant?”

“The airship’s coming over on hydrogen. It doesn’t need the helium right away. It could fly back on hydrogen.”

“And you still say you wouldn’t go for the airship?”

“Not with the Nazis on board. His Majesty’s government is not in the business of assassinating foreign heads of state, no matter how detestable and loathsome they may appear to be.”

“What if the airship’s landed and already in the shed? Take out the airship and the shed together. Two birds with one stone?”

“If that’s the case, it’s already arrived in the Confederacy, and their propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, will have had his newsreels distributed to every country in the Western world, proclaiming the genius of German engineering and the fine work of the Confederacy in recognizing National Socialist achievements.”

“You almost sound as though you could work for them,” replied Summers, half-admiringly. “You seem to think like they do.”

“In order to destroy the bastards, you have to learn to think like them and then come up with your own plans to kick them where it will hurt the most.”

“
Maybe it would have been better if I’d simply asked them to shoot you while you were trying to escape.”

B
rian started awake. Something had moved downstairs. Something which shouldn’t be there. In the past few weeks he had come to know the sounds that Horace and Betsy made as they moved around, and this wasn’t one of them. In any case, he was supposed to be alone in Miss Justin’s house, with the two slaves sleeping in their quarters in the back yard. There was never any reason for them to come into the house at night, and anyway, he’d locked all the doors as he’d gone to bed.

He crept out of bed slowly and quietly, groping under his pillow. The familiar feel of the gun gave him confidence.

He turned the door handle silently, and crept along the landing to the top of the stairway, where he could hide in an alcove, with a clear view of the hallway, but without easily being seen himself.

Patiently, he half-crouched and waited. He saw two shadows, both apparently male, creeping towards the foot of the stairs. Waiting until the right moment, he jumped from the alcove, brandishing his pistol.

“Hands in the air, you two!” he called down the stairs.

“I wouldn’t be in such a hurry about that, if I was you,” came a soft Southern voice from behind him. Something cold and round and hard stuck into his back, just below his neck.

Brian quickly sized up his chances, and calculated he didn’t have many left. He’d really messed up by not checking his rear. Why had he assumed that there were only two of them, and that they were both downstairs? Kicking himself mentally, he dropped his gun, and put his hands in the air.

“Very good, Brian,” came the voice from behind him.

“Who are you talking to?” Brian asked in his Louisiana accent. “You’ve got the wrong guy. My name’s Lewis. Lewis Levoisin.”

“Who are you trying to fool, asshole? Brian de Quincey Finch-Malloy, whatever kind of faggot Limey name that is, get your ass down those stairs before I blow a hole in you. There’s some folks want to have a quiet word with you.”

For a moment, Brian toyed with the idea of making a move to disarm the man behind him, before he noticed the two shadows below had assumed a more solid form. Both were carrying Thompson sub-machine guns. That meant he was in the hands of one of the Confederates’ elite security forces. Tommy guns were expensive, and not handed out in large quantities. And they certainly weren’t to be argued with by an unarmed man. A prod in the back of the neck with the barrel of the gun behind him made up his mind. He started down the stairs, considering his chances. He might easily beat the one man behind him, but he had no hope of escaping from two men with automatic weapons.

“OK, hands behind your back.” The cuffs bit into his wrists. “Into the car with you. Back seat.” A hard shove in the small of the back. One agent on either side of him, and one in the front driving.

“Left here,” said the one on Brian’s right to the driver. He was the one who’d stuck the gun in his back, Brian judged from his voice, and he was the one who seemed to be in charge. He realized they were heading towards the airship terminal as they sped through the deserted streets. They left the town and its few dim streetlights behind, and turned onto the unpaved track that led to the terminal. Brian remembered that according to David, it was due to be tarred before the airship arrived, in order to give the dignitaries a smoother ride. He didn’t think Hitler or Jeff Davis would appreciate the bumps he was experiencing now. Popular gossip had it that Davis was a chronic sufferer from piles.

“What’s so goddamn funny, Limey?” asked the agent on his right. “You’ve got nothing to be smiling about, y’hear?”

“Why don’t we just shoot the bastard and say he was trying to escape?” asked the driver.

“Because, Mulligan, the Colonel has said he wants to talk to him kind of personal. And I’m not going to start arguing with Colonel Vickers, even if you like the idea. He’s got too many friends in Richmond.”

The news that he was going to the army did not fill Brian with optimism. The things he’d heard about army detention facilities, and what he’d seen with his own eyes in his service with the Confederates, made him wish he was being taken to one of the Confederacy’s civilian institutions, brutal as they were.

“Goddamn army,” muttered the driver.

“Them’s the rules, Mulligan. You don’t like them, get out now.”

“Doesn’t seem right that this is an army case, all the same,” said the third agent, who hadn’t spoken until now. “After all, we did all the hard work of catching him.”

“The tip-off came through the army,” replied the other. “Just you be thankful you’re not in the army yourself, Wilson. They’d shoot you for mutiny.”

They arrived at the camp a little way from the nearly completed airship shed. The driver showed a pass to the sentry at the gate.

“OK, out with you,” ordered the one in charge. “Come on, now.”

With one agent on each side gripping an elbow in a painful grip, Brian walked awkwardly, the handcuffs cutting off the blood to his hands, really starting to go numb by now.

The lights were shining through one window in the barrack block, and the group made their way towards it.

-o-

“
I
n you go,” said the leader to Brian, opening the door and shoving him through it. At the end of a corridor, another door stood open. This was the door to the room with the light on.