AT THE LAUNDRY AND dry cleaner’s in Saint Symphorien, the Vietnamese girl promptly demanded payment in advance. She did a double take when I said I had fallen into a wine vat but she didn’t ask what color wine.
Crossing the lobby of Le Relais du Moulin had been tricky but I managed it by close observation and fast footwork. One shower was insufficient and I had to take a second. A heavy dosage of cologne bestowed on me more “presence” than I would have wished and I realized that I would not be able to embark on any undercover missions until it had worn off. I got into the car and on to the highway.
A Porsche scorched past me and then a BMW with Swiss plates. The traffic thinned out as I got farther into the countryside and I was cruising placidly when I saw a terrifying sight.
Across the top of the windshield came drifting what looked like an enormous dragonfly. I had a chilly feeling that came from the memory of the horrifying creature that had flown over me in Colcroze—and dropped a murderous beehive. This one was very similar, then I was able to make out a framework of slim girders, a set of wheels, and a human figure seated in their midst.
It was an ultralight aircraft—“a flying bicycle” as some called it. The large wings were diagonally striped in red, white, and yellow, and I found some satisfaction in the fact that they were not green and brown as the other creature—well, aircraft—had been.
This one was low and dropping quickly. My first scare was that it was about to make some lethal attack on me, but that evaporated as it crossed my path and veered away. Nevertheless, I didn’t take my eyes from it, being fortunate that there was no high-speed Teutonic traffic on this stretch.
The aircraft drifted lower and lower until it fell out of sight beyond a wooded hill. It was so low that it had to be landing. I slowed and turned into a well- used dirt road that wound into a pine forest.
So I hadn’t been dreaming after all. I had seen a real aircraft in Colcroze—at least, a real ultralight aircraft. Moreover, the man flying it had dropped a crowded beehive on me, and as Colcroze was deserted and apparently had been that way for centuries, it was no accident.
This strongly suggested that being pushed into the wine vat had been no accident either. The inescapable conclusion was that someone here didn’t like me. Perhaps there was more than one person who didn’t like me—difficult as I found that to accept.
The pine forest opened up into a large field with some wooden buildings in one corner. A windsock flew over them and the air hummed with the sound of small engines. A large compressed-air tank with crumbling blue paint stood to one side, and sunk into the ground, a fuel container with a BP crest poked up nozzles and valves.
Six of the ultralight aircraft were dotted around the field. Men and women were near them. I stopped the car and watched. One man came out of one of the buildings, carrying a fuel can in his hand. He took it to one of the aircraft and emptied the can into it. Another man came out of the same building and I stared at him. He had his hands in the pockets of a leather jacket and he sauntered toward the same aircraft. I shaded my eyes against the sun to get a better look at him. I wasn’t mistaken—it was Alex Suvarov, the golden-haired Russian I had met on Masterson’s yacht,
I hadn’t looked at his card when he had given it to me but I looked through my wallet, found the card and read the name.
Escadrille Demoiselle it said, and underneath it had the English translation—Dragonfly Squadron.
I had thought it near impossible when he had told me that one of the couriers in his service had brought a film script from Orange to Nice in an hour and a half. I had been thinking of a fast car, but with an ultralight aircraft it would be easy.
I examined the aircraft one by one. A machine was taxiing slowly and had red, white, and yellow bands in a diagonal pattern across the wings. That was the aircraft I had seen making its landing approach. One of the stationary machines had its propeller turning and accounted for another engine noise. Its wing was two shades of blue. Of the other four machines, two were different combinations of red and white and the third was silvery gray with black markings. It was the remaining machine that had already caught my eye, though. It had green and brown wings in an unmistakable and unforgettable pattern—it was the aircraft I had seen over the ghost village of Colcroze.
I drove to the buildings across the field and parked. I followed Alex Suvarov out to the ultralight that had just been fueled. It was one of the two with red and white markings. I passed the silvery gray machine where a man and a woman were engrossed in a discussion that involved downdrafts and wing loading factors. When I reached Suvarov, he was giving compass readings to the other man, who was apparently preparing to take off.
The man climbed into the bucket seat and fastened his seat belt. His hands moved on the controls and the engine growled louder. The ungainly aircraft moved forward, bumping a little over the grassy surface. Its pilot guided it past the other aircraft and I expected him to taxi to a runway to take off. Instead, he just accelerated the engine and the craft rolled forward, rising into the air like a released balloon.
It was a breathtaking sight to a neophyte like me because it was not far short of a vertical takeoff. As the ultralight disappeared over the pine trees, Suvarov turned and saw me. His face lit up with recognition.
“My friend!” he cried. “I am so glad you have come to see us!”
He sounded genuinely pleased and his words rang with sincerity. His smile faded, though, as he saw my expression.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
I pointed to the ultralight with the green and brown wings. “Does that aircraft operate from this field?”
“Yes,” he said, still puzzled. “All the aircraft here belong to members of the Dragonfly Squadron.”
“Who does that one belong to?”
His eyes moved over my face. “That one? Why, that’s mine.”