Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (20 page)

“Is that secure enough?” Lewis asked.

Iskinder shrugged. “I’m afraid it will have to be.”

“As long as nobody knows too much about this mission of yours, it ought to be ok,” Mitch said.

“Ah. As I said, I was hunted in Cairo, but I believe I have given them the slip.” Iskinder shrugged. “That’s the best I can say. I warned you, this is a real war now.”

“It’s worth the risk,” Alma said. “As long as you can get the fuel there.”

The coffee was ready, and Jerry ducked back into the kitchen. Before he could figure out how to manage the heavy pot, Lewis had joined him.

“Let me get that.”

“Thanks.”

Lewis hesitated. “I don’t know a damn thing about Ethiopia,” he said, softly. “I know he’s your friend, but — do they even have aviation fuel on this lake whatever?”

“There are commercial flights into Addis Ababa every week,” Jerry said. “And they’ve got an air force of sorts. Iskinder says the emperor has been spending money on air transport because the roads are so bad.”

Lewis nodded. “Ok. No offense meant. I just don’t know.”

“None taken,” Jerry said, and followed him back into the sitting room.

Lewis poured the coffee and they settled back into their chairs. Alma still looked desperately tired, and as Jerry watched she stifled another yawn.

“Probably the first thing we need to do is sleep,” she said, ruefully. “How crucial is the timing, Iskinder?”

He made a face. “The guns should have been with the army by now. The need is urgent.”

“All right. We’ll try to do this as soon as possible.” Alma took a long swallow of her coffee. “How soon can your man get us the goods?”

“He wants them off his hands,” Iskinder said.  “As soon as he possibly can, I imagine. Though today is New Year’s, and he’ll have trouble getting stevedores today.”

“We can’t load today anyway,” Mitch said. “We’re at a mooring, and quite frankly I’m dead on my feet. I don’t want to even try before tomorrow.”

Alma nodded. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t contact him today, right?”

“I expect I can,” Iskinder said. He glanced at Jerry.  “I can give you a draft on my bank to cover fuel costs and the dock fees. Though our enemies may be watching the banks.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Jerry said.

“There’s one other thing,” Alma said, and gave a sudden grin. “At least I think there’s only one! It was a hell of thing, Iskinder, we came straight from the closing ball — full evening dress, we changed on the plane. We brought a man with us — don’t worry, he doesn’t know anything about why we’re here except that we had a charter. His name’s von Rosen, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen. Do you know him?”

Iskinder frowned. “Yes, though not personally?  He has a good reputation. He was working with our air force when the Italians attacked, and after that, he was a liaison with the Red Cross.”

“He said he’d been doing ambulance flights,” Mitch said.

“That I don’t know,” Iskinder said. “I’ve been on the road a while.”

“He said he was trying to buy a larger plane at the air show, but the seller didn’t show,” Alma said. “And now he’s trying to get back to Ethiopia. Should we offer him a place?”

”Iskinder rubbed his chin. “As far as I know, he’s good and reliable. Let me check when I wire our people.”

“All right.” Alma yawned again, and Mitch shook his head.

“Yeah, the coffee’s not touching me, either. We’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Alma said. She looked at Jerry. “If we catch a cab back to the hotel, we can get a nap, then meet you for dinner? All of you?”

“Me and Willi, maybe,” Jerry said. “I don’t think Iskinder should show himself.”

“Sadly, no,” Iskinder said. “And I am very tired of this flat — forgive me, Jerry, but I am.”

“You’ll be out of it soon enough,” Jerry said.  He reached for his hat and his cane. “I’ll hail a cab for you.”

They had to walk to the next crossroad to find a cab, and Jerry packed them into it, making sure the driver understood the destination. The man also spoke a little English, which he was happy to show off, and Jerry slipped Mitch a wad of the local currency. That was something else he’d have to arrange, to change money once the banks opened tomorrow.  Everything had been going so slowly, and now suddenly there was no time left. He remembered that feeling from the war, the abrupt switch from patience to frantic activity, and he couldn’t say he liked it. He shook himself, frowning. Willi should be back from the dig by now; they couldn’t change money, not until tomorrow, but the main telegraph offices would be open. Iskinder could send his coded cables, and make contact with his smuggler — telephone? Another cable? That was Iskinder’s choice, he told himself, and turned back to toward the flat. The street was busy, but not so crowded that he couldn’t spot someone following him. He took the long way home anyway, stopping blamelessly at the European grocer two blocks from the flat for tea and jam, and was reasonably sure no one was watching.

January 1, 1936

B
reakfast was room service as usual, and as usual Merilee was up ahead of the sun. She was on her fourth piece of toast (Merilee refused to eat anything but toast in the morning) and Stasi was nursing her third cup of coffee and a headache when the boys charged in. They immediately started squabbling over whether or not panettone was a proper breakfast food or not, which Stasi refrained from wading into other than to say that everyone could eat what they wanted. This at least mollified Douglas for a while, as he always wanted to eat everything.

Eventually, Jimmy looked up from his plate. “Where is everyone? Did they go out to the field early for the show?”

“The show’s over,” Douglas said.

“There might be private buyers,” Jimmy replied. He cocked his head at Stasi. “Mrs. Sorley, where are they?”

Stasi took a deep breath. “They’ve gone on a short trip. They’ll be back in a few days.”

At that Douglas’ eyes grew very round, and Stasi remembered belatedly that this was exactly what their father had said before he took off for good. Hurriedly, she plunged on. “They’ve gone to Africa, darling. An Ethiopian prince asked for their help in combating a terrible menace, so they’ve flown clear across the Mediterranean to Egypt.”

Jimmy put his fork down with a clatter. “Where are they really?” The irritation in his voice only partially covered real fear.

Stasi made herself take a long, slow drink of her coffee. “Where do you think, darling? A buyer wanted to take a look at the plane. They’ve taken him on a test flight.”

Jimmy’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, won’t Mr. Odlum like it if they sell planes?”

“He certainly will,” Stasi said.

“Who is it?” Jimmy asked, now looking very grown up.

“A Swede. He’s talking about buying a bunch of planes for a Swedish airline. They’re going to be gone several days because he liked the plane so much that they have to show it to the executives.” She was especially proud of getting the word ‘executives’ in there. It made it sound so legitimate and official.

“Oh,” Jimmy said. “But don’t we have to catch the boat home in a few days?”

“They’ll be back before then,” Stasi said, crossing her fingers under the table. They’d better be.

“I liked the Africa story better,” Douglas said disappointedly.

January 1, 1936

B
y the time Jerry returned to the flat, his parcel tucked under his arm for everyone to see, Willi had returned from the dig site and had settled himself in front of the open window with a cup of rapidly cooling tea. Iskinder had taken over the little table, papers spread out in front of him as he scribbled on a sheet of typing paper. They both looked up as the door opened, and Jerry saw Willi relax slightly.

“I’m sorry to have missed your friends,” he said.

“So were they,” Jerry answered, and set the package on the kitchen counter. “I thought we’d have dinner together tonight?”

“That would be lovely.”

Iskinder looked up with a wry smile. “You can’t know how much I envy you that dinner.  Not that your cooking has been anything but edible, Jerry, but…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jerry saw Willi grin, and said, placidly, “I was thinking we’d dine at the Imperial.”

“Unkind.” Iskinder bent his head over his papers. Jerry moved closer, and saw a much folded booklet spread open among the papers, double columns marching along the thin pages.

“Your telegram?”

Iskinder nodded. “I am almost done, I think. Though where I should have them send the reply, I just don’t know.”

“Have it held at the Telegraph Office,” Willi said. “We can send one of the men to collect it first thing in the morning.”

“That’s a good idea.”  Jerry seated himself in the armchair, which Willi had tactfully vacated, and stretched out his wooden leg. “I haven’t seen any sign that anyone has tracked you here, Iskinder, but it would be foolish to take chances.”

“It would indeed,” Willi murmured. He shook himself.  “Shall I make more coffee?”

“Not for me, thank you,” Iskinder said, and Jerry shook his head.

“Was everything all right at the dig?”

“Yes.” Willi sighed.  “It seems someone tried to cut the chain on the gate, but they weren’t able to get through before someone heard them. Hussein and I checked over the site just in case, but everything is fine.”

“That’s good.”

“We may want to consider a second watchman.”

“We’ll look at the budget,” Jerry said. He was watching Iskinder, whose hand never stopped moving, adding a word here, crossing out two more there. It couldn’t be easy to compress everything he needed to say, everything he wanted to get through, into even a long telegram.

As if he’d read the thought, Iskinder looked up. “I’m almost done, if you or Willi would be willing to take it to the Telegraph Office.  I’d say wait for a reply, but they’ll need time to find out what’s possible. But they should have an answer by morning.”

Jerry nodded. “And your contact with the guns? How do we get in touch with him?”

“He is on the telephone,” Iskinder said. “And I see you were wise enough to sign up as well. And since this is a nice modern system, I see no reason not to use it.”

Jerry blinked, then remembered the landlord bragging that Alexandria had gone to an automatic exchange the previous year. There were no more operators to listen in on every local call. New York had been the same. “I suppose not.”

“And I will take a nice walk to the Telegraph Office,” Willi said.

“We both will,” Jerry said. Willi tipped his head to one side in question, and Jerry shrugged. “What could be more uninteresting than a pair of middle-aged academics taking a walk together on a holiday?”

“Very well.”

Willi looked as though he wanted to ask about Jerry’s leg, but Jerry pretended not to notice. He was doing well enough, better than he’d done in Hawaii, and a little extra walking was unlikely to cause too much trouble. And if it did — well, they could always take a cab back to the flat.

Iskinder handed over the final draft of the cable. Jerry tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket, and then he and Willi made their way down the stairs and out into the brilliant sunshine.  They took the long way around, along the Corniche among the holiday crowds, the ocean glittering and the breeze cool enough to cut the sun’s heat. They were unremarkable, two more Europeans among dozens, outnumbered by native Egyptians, but hardly alien. There were Africans of all nations, and in every possible costume, from robes and tall headdresses to flawless English suits; there was a family of robed Arabs as well, their women black-veiled from head to toe, each riding sidesaddle on a tiny donkey. For a moment, Jerry’s vision wavered, the stones shifting, walls rising in new shapes to either side, but the crowd remained as cheerfully polyglot. Some of that inheritance, at least, had lasted. He took a tighter grip on his cane and moved on. If anyone was taking an undue interest in them, he couldn’t find them.

The main telegraph office was open, though with a smaller staff than usual. Jerry copied Iskinder’s message onto a form and took his place in the short line, leaning on his cane. The lobby was less busy, too, just a handful of businessmen in suits who couldn’t wait for the next day, plus a tall African in blinding white robes and a rumpled European who looked like the caricature of a journalist. Jerry gave him a sharp look, but the man seemed to be paying no attention, and he made himself look away.

He handed over the form and the fee to an efficient-looking clerk, who glanced at it and slid the bills back across the counter. “It’s double for code, sir.”

“It’s standard commercial code,” Jerry said, and made himself sound martyred.

“It is harder for our operators, and the risk of error is greater. You would be better sending this in clear.”

“Nevertheless,” Jerry said. “I wish to send it as it is.  How much extra?”

“Double.”

And that, Jerry thought, was a less than official rate if ever he’d heard one. He waited just long enough to be sure the clerk understood that he knew what was happening, then shrugged, and added to the pile of bills. “Very well. But it’s to be sent as is.”