Stealing Trinity (35 page)

"Come on!" Braun shouted.

Suddenly, Kovalenko rushed down the stairs and toward Heinrich.

Braun took the chance. He reached into the airplane and pulled the briefcase closer. When he unlatched the locks, an array of fifty dollar bills stared up at him. He felt an instant of elation -- but it was short-lived. He raked a stack of bills with his thumb, then a second. Only the money on top was real, the rest carefully cut stacks of paper. Furious, he turned.

Kovalenko was at Heinrichs elbow, ushering him to the airplane. Braun heard Heinrich ask, "Where is our first stop?" The words were in German.

Kovalenko reacted badly. He froze, a bewildered expression on his face.

The little German scientist suddenly understood. With a speed that surprised Braun, Heinrich swung his suitcase into Kovalenko's ribcage. The Russian doubled over, and Heinrich pried the gun from his belt. Kovalenko recovered enough to snatch at the weapon, but Heinrich was smart -- using both hands, he kept the gun close to his chest, operating from a position of strength. A single shot rang out, and Kovalenko crumpled to the ground.

Braun was already moving. He pulled the worthless briefcase to his chest, using it as a shield, and rushed Heinrich. The German got off one shot, but it was absorbed by the thick wads of paper in the briefcase. Braun battered into Heinrich, locking onto his gun hand as they both went sprawling.

From there, it was no match. Braun was far stronger, far more experienced. In seconds his hands were wrapped securely around the Tokarev. Braun twisted the short barrel toward the German and jammed it into his bulging gut. He looked at Heinrich, saw his face flush with fear, saw the eyes bulging. Brauns own gaze was steady, composed --both men knew who would win.

Braun found the trigger. On the first shot the Nazi looked stunned. On the second he let out a churning wheeze. With the third, angled higher, into the heart, the body of Die Wespe fell completely limp across the hard crushed coral. Braun pried the gun away and looked at Kovalenko. The Russian was lying perfectly still in a spreading pool of red. The MP's had not reacted yet -- Braun knew he had only a minute, perhaps two, and his brain did the calculations. He reached a solution in two parts -- the suitcase containing Heinrich's documents, and the aircraft waiting a few steps away.

Braun snatched the case and bounded up the steps into the Ilyushin. The next problem was seconds away. He knew the pilot was an aviator -- the man had brought them here from San Francisco -- but was he also NKVD? Was he armed? Braun rushed the flight deck, gun leveled, and the answer was instantly clear. The man sat half turned in his seat, strangely calm. Resigned. He knew what Braun would ask of him.

"Where we are going?" the pilot asked in broken English.

"I don't care!" Braun yelled, pointing the gun at the man's head. "Anywhere! Just go!"

The pilot released his parking brake and gave power to the big radial engines. The Ilyushin began to move, lumbering toward the runway. They'd gone less than fifty feet when the pilot slammed on his brakes, nearly throwing Braun to the deck.

The pilot spewed a stream of obscenities in his native language.

"What is it?" Braun shouted.

The pilot gestured with both hands for him to look down, over the glare shield. Braun scrambled up to the empty copilot's seat and looked low under the nose. Some suicidal idiot had just cut them off with a loaded bomb cart.

Chapter 43.

Lydia s mission had been to bring the MP's as quickly as possible. She'd only made a hundred feet across the parking apron when she heard their whistles and saw them coming at a dead run. The alarm had been raised, but they were still two hundred yards away.

She turned back and spotted Thatcher as she ran. He was driving the tug wildly, careening across the ramp with a load of bombs still in tow. He brought it all skidding to a stop smack in front of the airplane. Thatcher jumped off as a collision seemed imminent, but the pilot slammed on his brakes and the big airplane's nose rocked down as it ground to a halt. Thatcher did a half circle around the right side of the airplane, just clearing the propeller that still spun in a blur. Lydia couldn't imagine what he was up to as he crouched down behind the big right wheel.

She was close now, and Lydia ducked into the shadow of another airplane. An instant later, Alex came bounding off the Russian craft. He had his gun poised, sweeping left and right in a crouch as he ran to the tug. He climbed on, started it, and drove the thing clear.

With Alex distracted, Thatcher moved on the opposite side of the airplane, scurrying toward the back. He stopped just in front of the tail and began prying against the side of the cabin. Lydia realized there was a door. It was farther back and larger than the entry door on the other side -- probably used for loading cargo. Thatcher expertly released the latches and had it open in a matter of seconds. He boosted himself up and disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him.

Against the churning vibration of the airplane's engines, Lydia heard a whistle. The MP's were closing in, but they'd never make it in time. Alex was already scrambling back inside, and the big airplane began to move. She had to do something. She'd just seen Alex kill a man. Now Thatcher was with him, alone. And Alex still had the gun. He had every advantage.

Lydia eyed the cargo door. It was still hanging loose on its hinges, the latches undone. There was no time to think. She scampered from her hiding spot and ran like she'd never run before.

Braun pointed the pistol at the pilot and screamed, "Go/"

There was no hesitation -- the airplane began to move. He looked out the entryway and saw MP's running, handguns drawn. Braun reached for the handle to draw the door closed, but it was locked in place. He was trying to find the release mechanism, his body squarely in the opening, when the blow came. Something smashed into his left arm. The Tokarev went flying out onto the ramp. Braun went for balance, spreading his feet and arms to the corners of the door frame. A flash came from behind and he ducked as hard steel glanced off his head. Braun was stunned. He tried to hold on as he strained for consciousness.

At that moment, the big airplane turned and accelerated under full power. He senses that his adversary was thrown off by the movement, and it gave Braun time to recover. He turned, his stance was wide, his hands up to deflect the next blow. But nothing came. The blurry shape in front of him was struggling to right itself.

Slowly, Braun's vision cleared. He heard the other man curse. Lifting a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face, Braun could not believe what he saw. The gimpy little Englishman. The same man who had started all his troubles back at Harrold House.

"You!" he hissed.

The Englishman stood. He was hanging onto the aft bulkhead, and they stared at one another as the aircraft sped down the runway. A window suddenly exploded, and Braun threw himself to the deck as bullets plinked into metal and glass. He saw the shooters flash by outside -- two MPs emptying their handguns into the huge Ilyushin. An instant later, the hail ended.

The big airplane levitated slowly, lumbering into the cairn morning air. Braun got back to his feet. The Englishman was brandishing a wrench. If he was hopelessly outmatched, his eyes didn't show it. They held nothing but fight. The man lunged at Braun with agility that belied his infirmity. The wrench whizzed by Brauns ear, and whacked painfully into his shoulder. But then Braun used his size. He kept the Englishman close and clamped down on the arm that held the wrench. A head butt caught Braun flush in the face, crunching against his nose. The pain was excruciating, but anger and adrenaline overcame it. He twisted toward the Englishman's bad leg and sent him spinning. His skull smacked hard against the metal sidewall, and he crumpled to the deck.

Grimacing, Braun spit out a mouthful of blood. He looked up front and set eyes on the pilot, who was watching the events in back. Braun had no idea who the man had been rooting for, but everything was clear now. "Keep it headed west!" Braun demanded. The pilot turned back to his controls.

Cautiously, Braun moved closer and inspected his adversary. Thatcher, he remembered. Major Michael Thatcher. The man was dazed, but not dead. Not yet. Braun looked at the still open door. Wind whistled past the opening, a rush of noise that Braun remembered from his parachute training. He contemplated tossing Thatcher out, as he'd done with old Mitchell. But then he had second thoughts. Thatcher might have valuable information.

Braun looked across the deck. Heinrich's suitcase, at least, was still there. Its tremendous value remained in his grasp. But he had to get away, and to do that Braun needed to know exactly who was after him, how much they knew. He might very well throw the little Englishman out the door--just not yet.

Lydia watched intently from behind the steel bulkhead that separated the main cabin from the aft cargo compartment. A heavy sheet of canvas was strung across the small opening that connected the two sections. It was loose on one edge, and Lydia supposed that was how Thatcher had gotten forward to confront Alex.

She only wished she could have helped. On crawling through the cargo door she'd found a mountain of luggage, supplies, and equipment to overcome. The violent maneuvering of the airplane on the ground had sent her reeling twice, and she'd gotten to the bulkhead just in time to see her partner thrown against the wall. Her heart skipped as he lay motionless, but then she saw Alex drag him forward and bind his hands and legs. Thatcher was still alive.

Lydia watched Alex as he moved up front and took the copilot's seat. He was addressing the pilot -- not conversationally, but with intimidation. Alex was giving instructions. The pilot, a Russian she imagined, was not necessarily on Alex's side. Given the carnage that had already taken place, he was probably just out to save his own skin.

Lydia had heard Alex's first demand -- Keep it headed west! As the airplane droned onward, she knew time was not on her side. Lydia turned and quietly rummaged through the luggage and equipment, looking for something to help her against Alex. The labels were in Cyrillic, but most was obvious enough -- spare tires, tools, cans of grease and oil. Nothing that would give her a chance. She went back to her vantage point and her heart soared. Thatcher was stirring against his restraints.

The wind rushed across the still open entry door nearby. Lydia imagined pushing Alex out -- was she cold enough to do it if the chance came? Had she become like him? Lydia did not have the answer to either question. She desperately scanned the forward part of the airplane. If nothing else, the noise from the open door would mask any sounds.

Think dammit! Think like Alex! And then Lydia's eyes locked onto something --it was just to her right, against the bulkhead. The weapon she needed.

Braun saw nothing but blue water in every direction. He had no desire to battle the ocean again. Keeping an eye on the pilot, he was encouraged that he knew enough about flying to keep the man honest. They had sufficient fuel to make the Philippines. There, Braun would force a landing at an obscure field, a road if necessary. And then he would take Heinrichs treasure and disappear.

Looking back, he saw Thatcher stir. The Englishman's eyes opened, and he groaned. Then his hands began to twist, testing the bindings. Braun had done his best with what was available, but the man might eventually worm his way free -- he was nothing if not persistent. Braun walked back and bent down to face Thatcher.

"So, Major, you are back with us?"

The reply was defiant. "I hope I look better than you."

Braun grinned and touched the goose egg that had erupted just above his scar. His face would also be smeared in blood. "Yes, my friend, you put up a good fight. But you have lost."

"I'm behind at the moment." Thatcher was able to lock eyes with the pilot.

"No, Major, our Russian friend will not help you. He knows what is best for him." Braun's tone grew lighter, "You know, I have wondered for some time -- how did you track me to Newport?"

Thatcher hesitated before explaining. "Back in England I interrogated a young corporal, Hans Gruber's secretary."

Braun strained to remember. "Yes . . . yes. I do remember him. He gave you my name?"

"That and a few other things. He was destroying some of Gruber's files, but he looked them over first."

Braun nodded vigorously. "Yes. That makes sense."

"So now you tell me," Thatcher said, "what are you going to do?"

Braun gestured to the suitcase in back. UI still hold the secrets of the world's greatest weapon. I have seen this thing, Major. I was a witness to the test. Someone will pay a great deal of money for the information."

"Money? Is that what Newport was about? You never really cared about Lydia, did you?"

Braun grasped at the question, but it was like trying to catch a thrown dagger. "No," he blurted, "of course not. Though we might have ended up together had it not been for your interruption." This idea surged in Brauns mind -- the man before him had ruined everything. "I am growing weary, Major," he spat. Braun grabbed Thatcher roughly by the collar. "Who else is after me at this moment? And what do they know? If you do not answer these questions right now--" Braun stopped in mid-sentence and tensed. Something was wrong. He saw it in Thatcher's eyes. He followed the Englishman's gaze and looked over his own shoulder. There, standing by the open door, was Lydia. In her hand was Karl Heinrich's suitcase.

"Stay where you are, Alex!" Lydia shouted to be heard over the noise, but also to take command. Even she was surprised by the confidence that radiated in her voice.

Alex said nothing. He stood tall and simply stared. Lydia tried to read the expression on his face. He had to be surprised, but there was something else. Something she didn't recognize. "If you come any closer, Alex, I'll throw it out the door!" To emphasize the point, she undid the latches on the heavy case. It cracked open slightly, and the edges of a few papers eked out to flutter sharply in the turbulent air. "Untie Michael," she demanded.