The triumphant conclusion of the heroin affair by Biggles and Algy was an historic achievement in its way. Not only did it keep the British airways free from narcotics smuggling for several years to come, but it also gave the Special Air Police what it desperately needed — a genuine success.
The chief beneficiary, of course, was the man at the top — Air Commodore Raymond. The Press began to sit up and take notice of the new department at the Yard, particularly after the Home Secretary himself had praised it in the House of Commons. The budget doubled almost overnight, and most important of all for the Air Commodore, his status at the Yard improved immeasurably. He could ignore the jealousy of senior detectives. Respect for him increased among the lower orders and finally, a few months later, when the Yard’s solicitor-in-chief conveniently expired, the Air Commodore regained his old room with its view across the river.
One would have thought that all this would have made him grateful to the chums — and probably he was, deep down. But Raymond was a strange and contradictory man. In adversity no one was a better ally, but when things started to go well he was inclined to grow suspicious, a tendency that had increased with age. Biggles’ theory was that he hated owing anything — particularly gratitude — to anyone. Perhaps he was also worried that a successful subordinate like Biggles might one day prove a threat. This was ridiculous, of course. Apart from the genuine respect that Biggles had always felt towards the older man, the last thing he wanted was a desk job with its never-ending load of tiresome responsibilities. Like Algy, Biggles remained what he had always been — a man of action, and a dedicated flier. He had no interest in power, wealth or titles. He despised politics and politicians more than ever and was honestly delighted that a man like Raymond should be once again enjoying the success and influence he patently deserved.’
But at the same time, Biggles would have been less than human had he not felt slightly miffed at the way that he and Algy were beginning to be treated by their boss. No further invitations to the Blazers’ Club had followed the big Old Bailey case which marked the end of the narcotics network. (Six airline stewards were sent down with hefty sentences, and the Special Air Police were warmly commended by the judge.) And whilst Biggles was reasonably satisfied to be offered the rank of detective inspector in the force, he was incensed to hear that all that Algy would receive was the position of detective sergeant.
‘It’s all right, dear old boy,’ Algy had remarked when the news arrived at Mount Street in a cool official letter from the Police Establishments Department. ‘Sergeant suits me rather well, and what does it matter what a fellow’s called these days? Pass me the marmalade, there’s a good fellow.’
But Biggles could not imitate his cousin’s nonchalance.
‘That’s gratitude for you!’ he fumed. ‘And after all these years and all we’ve done for him. He doesn’t risk his bally neck. He simply sits on his backside and orders us around. And then he offers you the rank of sergeant! It’s an insult, Algy, and I’m going to tell him so.’
‘Now, now, calm down,’ said the pacific Algy. ‘I rather like to be back among the other ranks after all these years, and Mrs Symes will certainly be most impressed. Her husband was a police sergeant, you know. But seriously, Biggles, what does any of this matter? Raymond’s a tricky character — always has been. But the main point is that if we stick with him, we’ll get the sort of work that we enjoy, and frankly Biggles, what’s the alternative?’
‘Oh, I know all that,’ said Biggles, ‘but I hate meanness in a man.’
‘Forget it. But I do suggest we concentrate on getting a few of our former chums to join us. That would improve the atmosphere no end. There’s Ginger Hebblethwaite for instance.’
‘But Ginger’s in New Zealand running that bally sheep-farm he inherited.’
‘Wrong again, old scout. He’s back. He rang last night when you were out. Apparently he couldn’t stand the place. Got bored to tears, and so he’s sold the farm and is back here with his tail between his legs looking for something he can do. He sends you his regards.’
‘I should jolly well think he does,’ roared Biggles, all thought of his annoyance with the Air Commodore instantly forgotten. ‘Where is the wretched fellow?’
‘Staying at the Cumberland Hotel.’
‘The devil he is! You should have asked him round. His room’s still here.’
Algy grinned and nodded cheerfully.
‘Just what I thought myself. I’ve ordered him to report here this morning. That’s probably him at the front door now.’
‘Great suffering catfish!’ expostulated Biggles as his former protegé appeared. ‘I’d given you up to the Antipodes for good. How wonderful to see you!’
‘And wonderful to be back, I can tell you Biggles! What’s been happening in my absence?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things. You’d be surprised! But before we start getting down to that, we must get a few facts straight. Firstly, you’re coming back here to the flat to live.’
‘If you say so Biggles,’ replied Ginger with a grin.
‘I do say so, and so does Algy. Secondly, have you got a job?’
Ginger shook his head.
‘Well, you have now, you lucky lad. You’re joining an outfit called the Special Air Police. Your country needs you, Ginger. And for that matter, so do we.’
As luck would have it, Ginger’s arrival at New Scotland Yard coincided with a period of furious activity, most of which has now been faithfully recorded by Captain Johns. As commercial travel in the air advanced, air crime kept pace with it — sabotage, smuggling, mail-bag thefts, and kidnapping by air — the list was endless, and wherever a British aircraft was involved, the Special Air Police became involved as well. This rather suited Biggles, who enjoyed nothing more than disappearing to the far side of the globe at a moment’s notice, and the full range of his investigations was phenomenal.
One moment he and Algy and the ebullient Ginger would be off to Central Africa investigating the suspicious loss of a private monoplane with a wanted criminal aboard. A few weeks later, they were in Canada investigating a horrendous series of disasters caused by bombs planted in the luggage holds of domestic aircraft. They collaborated ceaselessly with their French opposite number, Marcel Brissac of the French Sûreté, and sometimes found themselves in Rome, where they were always glad to work with the cheerful Brigadiere Grattapalli of the Carabinieri. Early in 1949 they were in the Antarctic, successfully salvaging a lost cargo of bullion from a wreck, a mission Captain W. E. Johns describes in Biggles in the Antarctic. Later that same year they helped foil one of the earliest attempts at hijacking a commercial aircraft, when Biggles flew to Addis Ababa and overpowered a demented Ethiopian who was threatening to blow up a British aircraft on the runway.
It was shortly after this that another of Biggles’ favourite cronies from the past joined the Special Air Police. This was the deceptively lethargic, monocle-wearing, former racing driver, Lord Bertie Lissie. At first, the Air Commodore had jibbed at the idea of having a member of the House of Lords on the payroll as an ordinary Air Constable.
‘Really James,’ he complained to Biggles, ‘the man’s a member of my club. How can I possibly expect him to obey my orders? And besides, a chap like Lissie as a humble member of the Force — it’s quite ridiculous!’
But Biggles patiently explained that Bertie never used his title, and that his appearance as a sort of stage-door-Johnnie was deceptive.
‘The man’s a splendid flier,’ he explained, ‘and a thoroughly good egg. Besides, he was a member of the Squadron in the war, and I can’t speak higher of a man than that.’
‘All right then, James,’ replied the Air Commodore with somewhat weary resignation. ‘You win, as usual, but people are beginning to complain that the Special Air Police is simply Biggles’ Private Army.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that, sir?’ countered Biggles with a grin. ‘It seems an excellent idea to me. If only I could persuade old Nobby Smyth to join us, it would be just like old times again.’
The Air Commodore groaned.
‘Please James, spare me that. But since you mention it, what has happened to your old mechanic?’
‘He’s become very rich,’ said Biggles. ‘Started his own aircraft component business down at Farnborough, and he’s become a regular tycoon — Rolls-Royce, house in the South of France, the lot, so I think you’re pretty safe.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that!’ the Air Commodore replied.
During these years of expansion of the Special Air Police, there was one vital area of activity which by necessity has had to remain secret until now — the special assignments Biggles and his friends performed for the British Secret Service. For, although Air Commodore Raymond was officially on the staff of the police, he still maintained his contacts with the spy world he had known in the past. And sometimes, when the need arose for the special skills that Biggles and his friends possessed, they would find themselves seconded to some hush-hush operation which had nothing much in common with the routine work of the Special Air Police. Biggles always would object to being called a spy — ‘sounds like some seedy fellow in a dirty mackintosh’, he used to say — but the fact was that he still enjoyed the Secret Service world, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than the undercover tasks that sometimes came his way. Many of these are still affected by the Official Secrets Act and so will have to wait for their historian. Others are of marginal interest to the actual story of Biggles’ life, but there is one affair which can finally be revealed and which is of such importance to the life of Biggles that it requires treating in some detail — the conclusion of his involvement with his oldest enemy of all, Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein.
Captain Johns himself described the beginning of this strange episode in a book which he entitled Biggles Buries a Hatchet. It was an appropriate title for the story of the curious events which ended with Biggles and a task force from the Special Air Police rescuing his old enemy from a Soviet prison camp on the island of Sakhalin, off the mainland of Siberia.
The story behind von Stalhein’s imprisonment is strange enough. With the ending of the war, the wily Prussian had thrown in his lot with the Secret Service of the Peoples’ Federal Republic of East Germany, and for several years had worked against the West. This was not entirely surprising, for although an old-style Prussian aristocrat, von Stalhein was a citizen of East Germany by birth, and the undercover world of spies and sabotage remained his natural habitat. He played a vital part in building up the East German Secret Service — but then his star began to wane. He was clearly not a dedicated communist, and several somewhat costly failures in the early sixties sealed his doom with his new political masters. (Biggles himself had played his part in his enemy’s eclipse when he foiled von Stalhein’s attempt to recover an important cache of secret documents which a former Nazi Intelligence Officer called Wolff had hidden in Jamaica. It was shortly after this that von Stalhein was arrested, tried by a people’s court in Lubeck and finally consigned to the grim work-camp at Sakhalin.)
Quixotically enough, one of von Stalhein’s final acts before arrest had been to get a warning through to Biggles of an attempt by the Russian K.G.B. to assassinate him. Why he did this is anybody’s guess. Perhaps some lingering sense of honour made the Prussian feel that murder in cold blood was indefensible. Perhaps he was getting back at the people who arrested him. Whatever lay behind it, von Stalhein’s warning certainly saved Biggles’ life. One good turn deserved another, and Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie Lissie undertook the sea-plane flight to the island of Sakhalin which resulted in the spectacular release of von Stalhein himself.
But although it seems a slightly touching story — as indeed in many ways it was — there was far more to this ‘burying of the hatchet’ with von Stalhein than was revealed at the time. Whilst Biggles and his chums went off to rescue von Stalhein for reasons of gratitude and, as Biggles put it, ‘really for old time’s sake’, Raymond was quite immune to all such sentimental motives. His cold, calculating brain had worked out in advance that the Hauptmann would be quite a prize — and a much-needed feather in the cap for British Intelligence in its competition with the American C.I.A., and once von Stalhein was in British hands, Raymond was determined to exploit him to the full.
Biggles, who now had few illusions about his boss, had guessed as much from the beginning, and did his best to save von Stalhein from the excesses of the faceless men in the British Secret Service. Indeed, he had quite a set-to with the Air Commodore on the subject just a few days after his return from the hell-hole of Sakhalin. Von Stalhein was still recovering from his ordeal in the carefully guarded mansion outside Brighton, which the Secret Service used to house its most valuable guests, and when Biggles asked to see him, he was greeted with a blank refusal.
‘Sorry, James old chap! Quite out of the question I’m afraid,’ the Air Commodore replied.
‘But why, sir?’ Biggles asked with some asperity. ‘I’ve known von Stalhein almost all my life, and now we’ve rescued him I’d like a chance to see that he’s all right.’
‘Oh, he’s all right — you can set your mind at rest on that score, James.’
‘But ordinary good manners would demand that I should visit him. Besides, sir, I know von Stalhein well enough to know that if he’s going to spill the beans to anyone, he’s far more likely to do so to me than to some cold-blooded interrogator from British Military Intelligence.’
‘James,’ sighed Raymond wearily, ‘do me a favour. Just stop being sentimental. You know as well as I do that von Stalhein is the biggest prize we’ve had for years. The professionals are dealing with him, and can’t have chaps like you around to muck things up. So just forget von Stalhein. You don’t owe him anything — after all, you saved the wretched fellow’s life.’
‘That’s not the point, sir, He’s a human being, and an officer and a gentleman, whatever else he may have been — which is more than I can say for these damned “professionals” of yours. I’m appealing to you, sir, to let me visit him.’
‘Quite out of the question, James,’ the Air Commodore replied, slapping the desk with his stainless steel ruler. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘It’s a really dirty business,’ Biggles fumed that night when all the chums were gathered in the flat.’ ‘And when I tried to reason with him he dismissed me like the confounded office-boy. I tell you, Algy, it’s the last bally straw. I’m resigning.’
‘Oh, calm down Biggles,’ answered Algy, sipping a lethargic Scotch and soda, ‘what’s the use of that? It’ll make no difference. Von Stalhein knew what he was in for when he came back with us. The Secret Service boys have got to do their job, and he’ll be O.K. in the end. When they’ve finished with him, they’ll get the plastic surgeons to give him a nice new face and find him a job somewhere under a new name – which is more than the other side would have done for us. You can save your indignation for someone other than the Hauptmann Erich. Don’t you agree, Bertie?’
Bertie Lissie nodded.
‘Quite,’ he drawled. ‘Frankly, can’t see what all the fuss is about. Always thought von Stalhein was a pain in the bally neck.’
‘Of course, he was,’ retorted Biggles. ‘He was the most determined enemy we ever had, but that’s precisely why I feel responsible for him. If you can’t see that, Bertie, then I’m sorry for you. What do you think, Ginger?’
Ginger Hebblethwaite shrugged his shoulders.
‘As far as von Stalhein goes,’ he said, ‘I think that I agree with Bertie. He’ll be all right, and if he isn’t I don’t think I’ll lose much sleep. But honestly, Biggles, what does worry me is Raymond’s attitude to us, and I suspect that that’s what really worries you as well.’
‘What d’you mean, old boy?’ asked Biggles.
‘Well,’ replied Ginger thoughtfully, ‘it seems to me that Raymond has been taking us too much for granted. In the old days he was fairly human, but he’s becoming impossible now, and since the department’s been successful — largely thanks to us — he’s been treating all of us like blinking sheep. I don’t like it — and I sympathise with Biggles.’
‘Thanks Ginger,’ replied Biggles sombrely. ‘You can see it if the others don’t — although I do mean what I said about von Stalhein. No, Algy, I’ve had enough of Raymond and his confounded job. If you chaps can take it, then good luck to you. Perhaps I’m just a bit old-fashioned, but I don’t like the way that things are going, and I’ve no intention of being treated like a blinking doormat at my time of life.’
‘You mean you’re serious about resigning?’ Algy said, aghast.
‘Absolutely, dear old boy. Never been more serious in my life.’
Biggles’ resignation from the Special Air Police was carefully hushed up, although the papers did their best to make a story of it. There were several angry scenes when journalists tried to nobble the Air Commodore at his flat in Duke Street, St James’s, to question him about it, and there was speculation in one Sunday newspaper that the Special Air Police was undergoing what it called ‘internal difficulties’. There were even rumours that Algy Lacey, Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie were about to leave as well in sympathy with their old friend. But these rumours came to nothing, and Biggles insisted that the whole argument was purely between himself and Raymond.
‘No point at all in dragging you into it, old scout,’ said Biggles stoically to Algy. ‘It’s not your battle, and besides, the Special Air Police would utterly collapse if all of you pulled out, and that would never do.’
‘But Biggles,’ Algy said with genuine concern, ‘what are you going to do? You need looking after, and without your chums to keep an eye on you, you’re simply bound to end up in some frightful pickle.’
Biggles smiled and patted Algy’s arm.
‘There, there, my dear old chap,’ he said. ‘It’s decent of you to speak like that, and I do appreciate it, but I’ll be all right, and it’s not as if we’ll not be seeing one another. I’ll still be living in the flat — if you’ll put up with me — and I’m probably too old for the temptations of this wicked world. Besides, I’ve got a job already, and I’m rather looking forward to it.’
‘You’ve got what?’ exclaimed Algy incredulously.
‘A job. Rather a good one as it happens, and with somebody you know.’
‘I don’t know anybody in his right mind who’d offer you a job, old scout,’ said Algy smiling with relief. ‘Who is it?’
‘Our old pal Nobby Smyth. He rang me up the moment he heard that I was leaving Scotland Yard. They always say that when you’re up against it you discover who your real friends are.’
‘Well, good for Nobby,’ answered Algy. ‘Always did say he was one of the best. What sort of job?’
‘Oh, he requires what he calls a sales executive. Blowed if I know exactly what it means, but I gather I’ll be a sort of salesman for his firm. Bags of foreign travel, fat expense account, nineteen-year-old secretary and a company car — the usual racket. I’m rather looking forward to it all.’
‘That’s absolutely capital! You can become a prosperous fat businessman at last. It’ll rather suit you, Biggles.’
‘Suit me be damned!’ growled Biggles. ‘Still, it’s better than the dole, and as Nobby says, I’ve got a lot of contacts in the airline business round the world. You never know, one day I could even be touting you for business.’
‘You might at that. By the way, one thing I meant to ask you. How did old Raymond take it when you handed in your resignation? You never told me.’
‘Not much to tell you, dear old chap,’ replied Biggles with a frown. ‘The blighter wouldn’t see me. Said we had nothing to discuss. Rum way of behaving when you think of it, but if that’s the way he feels ...’
Algy’s doubts nothwithstanding, Biggles was surprisingly successful as a businessman, and much as he pretended to despise his new-found trade, he actually enjoyed himself. One week he would be off to Bangkok discussing aero-engines with an old acquaintance who was now the chief executive of Thai Airlines. The next he would be in South America selling fuel tanks to Argentinians, and from there he would double back to Washington to look up several contacts with the Pentagon. Old fliers form a sort of international trade union, and everywhere that Biggles went he found friends who would go out of their way to help him and provide fresh business.
At the same time, his relations with his new boss could hardly have been better. Business was booming, and although it was several years yet before Nobby Smyth received his inevitable knighthood, he was already quite a power in the land. It was a situation that could easily have been difficult — particularly with somebody as touchy as Biggles — but fortunately Nobby Smyth possessed considerable respect for his old C.O. He also realised his value to the firm, and Biggles was allowed to be very much his own master, with his own small office in the Smyth Organisation H.Q. in Park Lane, and all the other business perks that he expected — including the effective use of the company’s De Havilland Dove whenever he felt like flying.
The only drawback to this whole new way of life was that he inevitably started to lose contact with his chums in Mount Street. He saw them frequently of course, and often treated them to lunch. His kit remained in his old den at the flat, and when he was in London he used it as his home. But, although no one would admit it, the fact was that Biggles was in a very different world now from the others. They had the excitements of their work, he had his business to attend to and, naturally, their paths diverged. It was hard to tell how much this worried Biggles. Sometimes it seemed as if he really missed the thrills and camaraderie of days gone by.
‘Lucky blighter,’ he would say to Algy as he donned his dark blue suit and grabbed his briefcase for an early-morning business conference. ‘It’s all right for you, off playing cops and robbers. I’ve got to earn my living by the sweat of my blinking brow.’
But as time went by, he seemed less and less interested in the work of the Special Air Police — so much so that sometimes, when Algy started telling him about his latest exploits, Biggles would have to hide a yawn. Algy noticed this of course, and became upset, but there seemed nothing anyone could do to set things right, and he resigned himself to the gloomy thought that their old partnership was over. The final disappointment came when Algy mentioned summer holidays. For as long as either could remember, Biggles and Algy had always taken them together, and Algy not unnaturally assumed that this would be happening again. His three weeks’ leave was due at the end of June, and he mentioned it to Biggles.
‘Sorry, old scout, you’ll have to count me out this year,’ he answered somewhat shiftily.
‘Count you out, Biggles? Why? Doesn’t Nobby give wage-slaves like you a summer holiday? I’ll have to have a word with him!’
‘No, don’t do that old boy,’ said Biggles quickly. ‘Fact is that Norah’s invited me down to Cannes for a sort of house party affair, you know.’
‘Norah!’ expostulated Algy. ‘Who the hell’s Norah?’
‘Norah Smyth, old boy. Nobby’s wife. You must remember her. It’s rather expected of a chap to go when his employer and his wife invite him specially. Confounded bore, of course. You simply must excuse me.’
So that year Algy went on holiday to Trinidad with Bertie Lissie, while Ginger held the fort at Scotland Yard with several of the new, less colourful members of the Force. And Biggles was at Cannes, living the so-called ‘good life’ to the hilt. In fact, it rather suited him. The Smyths were extremely rich by now and entertained extensively. Not all their guests were Biggles’ cup of tea, but most of them were mixed up in the world of aeronautics so he was not exactly bored. His old pal, Wilkinson, last seen before the war reorganising the Bolivian Air Force, and now a big wheel in a South American airline, was staying at the Eden Roc with his fourth and very nubile wife, and Marcel Brissac of the Sûreté was camping en famille near Cannes. Biggles wined and dined, mixed business gossip with reminiscences of the past, and generally enjoyed himself. He even gambled once or twice at Monte Carlo, recalling as he did so those far-off days before the war when he and Algy had been young and carefree, spending the profits they had made from Biggles and Co. in the gilded precincts of the salles privées. He missed Algy now, and one night when he and Nobby Smyth had spent a happy evening on their own, dining together at the Chapon Fin, and losing a small fortune at roulette, he became slightly maudlin on the subject of his ancient crony.
‘Dashed pity that it had to break up as it did, Nobby old thing,’ he said gloomily. ‘Of course I couldn’t be more grateful to you and Norah for everything you’ve done, but you must know how I feel’.
Nobby nodded sympathetically. He was a rather dapper figure now in his midnight blue tuxedo, and Biggles found it hard to picture him as the young mechanic in the greasy overalls he had originally known at Maranique.
‘Truth is, you know Nobby, I miss the past — flying, risking one’s neck, facing an honest enemy, even being broke. It was fun, wasn’t it? Whereas now ... Confound it, Nobby, I’m getting old.’
‘Nonsense Biggles,’ answered Nobby loyally. ‘You’re the best sales executive we’ve got, and I’ve a surprise for you. I’ve been talking things over with Norah and the Board. We’d like to offer you a full directorship.’
‘A what?’ expostulated Biggles.
‘You heard me. We’d like you on the Board of the Smyth Organisation What do you say about it, Biggles? We’d be very honoured.’
‘Poppycock, my dear old chap!’ replied Biggles gruffly. ‘You’re being very kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept.’
‘But why not? You must excuse me speaking to you like this, but the past is over. Algy and Ginger have their lives to lead — and so do you. Why not allow yourself to make the best of it?’
Biggles nodded.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Any objection if I take a day or two to think things over?’
‘None at all. And now perhaps we should be getting back to Norah. Oh, incidentally Biggles, perhaps we shouldn’t tell her quite how-much we lost tonight. Women like Norah worry about such things.’
But when the two men returned to the apartment on the Grande Corniche, they found that the motherly Norah Smyth had other matters on her mind.
‘Biggles,’ she said excitedly, ‘so there you are! Someone’s been ringing you all evening from London. Seemed in quite a state. He’s trying you again at midnight.’
‘Stone the crows, Norah!’ answered Biggles wearily. ‘Can’t they ever let a fellow be? Who on earth was it?’
‘He refused to leave a name, but I think I recognised the voice.’
‘Really Norah? That’s extremely clever of you. Who was it?’
‘Your old friend, Air Commodore Raymond.’
‘Ever thought of joining the old Club, James?’ said Air Commodore Raymond. ‘Now you’ve become so high and mighty you might well consider it.’
‘Join the Blazers’ Club, sir? But I’m hardly in that league. Dash it all, it’s the most exclusive club in London.’
‘Come, come James! You mustn’t underrate yourself, and since I’ve become chairman of the membership committee I think it can be arranged without much difficulty. It could be useful to you now you know, my boy.’
It was the following evening, and Biggles was already kicking himself for allowing Raymond to talk him into breaking off his holiday to fly back to London at a moment’s notice. His old boss had always known how to twist his arm — and on the telephone had made it sound a matter of life and death. Biggles had done his best to sound extremely cool. (Indeed, until that moment he had always sworn he’d never speak to the Air Commodore again.) But once the rasping voice began to talk of ‘a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you’, Biggles really had no chance. The Smyths had been most understanding when he had said apologetically, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better see what the old devil wants’. Nobby had insisted that he took the Dove, and even drove him into Nice next morning in his own Rolls Royce.
But, now that Biggles found himself tackling a tornedos in the all too familiar surroundings of the Adam dining-room, he wondered what the fuss was all about. One thing he knew for sure, the Air Commodore hadn’t summoned him from the Riviera simply to propose him for the Blazers’ Club. But, as usual, Raymond had to take his time, and it was not until the port was circulating that he allowed himself to speak his mind.
‘Quite like old times, eh what?’ he said, polishing his monocle on his napkin. ‘We miss you, James, you know.’
‘That’s kind of you, sir’, Biggles answered coolly.
‘And when one thinks of the successful coups we’ve planned here in this very club. That record breaking flight you made to Singapore, the von Sternberg business — you know, James, it takes you back.’
‘Quite,’ said Biggles, wondering what was coming next.
‘But something has cropped up, something that could make everything we’ve done before pale into insignificance.’
‘Really?’ said Biggles, trying to disguise his natural interest, but knowing Raymond’s habit of hyperbole.
‘I’ve finished with the Force, sir,’ he replied. ‘Ginger and Algy and young Bertie Lissie are extremely competent, and this new job of mine is most demanding.’
‘Balderdash, James, and you know it!’ thundered Raymond. ‘Chaps like us never leave the Service. You have a duty, James, a patriotic duty, and I’m appealing to it now.’
‘To help us. You’re the only one who can.’
‘I like to think I’ll always do my duty,’ Biggles answered stiffly. ‘But tell me how.’
‘Well James, it’s difficult. You see, I realise I owe you an apology over the von Stalhein business. You were quite right and I was wrong. All through his debriefing last year he was asking to see you., I, as you know, refused. Since then he’s been living in America. The C.I.A. officially requested a chance to interrogate him too, and we agreed. He’s been at their place in Vermont. Just a few days ago I heard from them. They’re in a devil of a state.’
‘That makes a change,’ said Biggles grinning cynically.
‘No, but seriously, they are. And all because of our old friend, von Stalhein. You probably don’t know, but von Stalhein’s proved a mine of information to the West — not only over the usual names of agents and spy networks that one expects from a defector, but also for specific information on the East’s offensive hardware. He’s an incredible chap, von Stalhein — sharp as they come and memory like an I.B.M. computer.’
Biggles nodded.
‘You don’t have to tell me anything about von Stalhein, sir. I’ve never underestimated him. Why has he put the wind up our friends in Washington?’
‘Because of what he’s been telling them about the Russian missile system — and in particular about their new top secret effort known as the Budnik.’
‘Go on,’ said Biggles.
‘He didn’t mention it to us, but the Americans kept on at him and from what I hear, the Budnik is the weapon to end all weapons. It’s compact — about twelve feet long — but it has nuclear capability and flies above the speed of sound. More to the point, it’s ninety per cent accurate up to three thousand miles, and proof against all known methods of detection and defence, including radar. So, you can understand why the Pentagon’s in such a tizz.’
‘Absolutely,’ Biggles answered. ‘It presumably puts the Russians streets ahead of anything the West possesses and upsets the apple-cart between the super-powers. Very tricky.’
‘And to make it trickier still,’ said Raymond, ‘the East is stolidly denying its existence in the current round of disarmament talks in Prague. You can see the Budnik’s what our allies call “a hot potato”.’
‘Of course,’ said Biggles nodding shrewdly, ‘but why are you telling me this? I can’t believe you brought me back from France simply to lecture me on Cold War strategy.’
‘Ah, sharp as ever, James!’ the Air Commodore exclaimed, lighting a Fiorita from the eighteenth-century candelabra in the middle of the table. ‘No, dear boy, there’s a method in my madness, for it seems that you, and you alone, have suddenly become a key figure in this whole schemozzle. According to von Stalhein, our good friends the Russians did quite a lot of early testing of the Budnik near a place called Sukhumi on the Black Sea, and eighteen months ago one of them went adrift — some sort of design fault. But instead of heading for the Caucasus, it doubled back and landed somewhere in Turkish Anatolia. Naturally, they tried to get the damned thing back but it was difficult. To start with, Turkish Anatolia’s an enormous place with a lot of virtual desert, and no one seemed to know where the Budnik landed. Secondly, the Russians had to be extremely careful with the Turkish government. They’re not the best of friends, and if a gang of Russians had gone scouring the country looking for a top-secret missile of this sort, there’d have been hell to pay. So, the Russians turned for help to their old friends, the East Germans, and between them they cooked up a so-called archaeological expedition to Eastern Turkey. Von Stalhein was in charge of it.’
‘And did they find what they were looking for?’ asked Biggles.
‘Officially not,’ replied the Air Commodore. ‘Remember that by then von Stalhein knew the skids were under him, and that he had his private doubts about his Russian masters. No, after two months scouring the country, he and his expedition returned to Germany and he reported there was no sign of the missing missile. Not long after this, he was arrested, and you know the rest.’
‘What’s all the fuss about then?’ Biggles asked impatiently.
‘Well,’ replied Raymond, pouring himself another glass of vintage port, ‘according to an excitable gentleman who came to see me yesterday from the C.I.A., von Stalhein is now saying that in fact he did find the Budnik — or at any rate, knows where it is. He claims that it’s intact and lying in a shallow mountain lake a hundred or so miles to the south of Lake Van. He wouldn’t tell the Russians, but the Americans are clamouring for him to help them find it. He’s apparently agreed on one condition.’
‘And what’s that, sir?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘That you go with him. Since you rescued him, you’re the one Westerner he trusts.’
‘Biggles, by all that’s good and holy, how wonderful to see your ugly mug again!’ ejaculated Algy as he saw his old pal sitting in the briefing room at Scotland Yard. ‘I thought you were still on your business jamboree in the south of France! What are you doing here? We were dragged back from Trinidad for some confounded new assignment the old boy’s cooked up. It wouldn’t be anything to do with you, by any chance?’
‘Afraid it is, old thing. At least, indirectly. It looks as if you’re going to have to put up with me again on a temporary basis for a week or two. Sorry and all that, but the boss-man will explain when he arrives. I think you’ll find we’re off to Turkey — along with Ginger and the admirable Bertie. Raymond and I have been completing the arrangements. It could be rather interesting — oh, and this time we’ll have an extra member of the team.’
‘Not Nobby Smyth? That would be terrific!’
‘No, Algy, no such luck. He’s far too busy rolling in the shekels like the sensible fellow he is. No, the old firm’s got a new recruit.’
‘Cripes, Biggles!’ Algy groaned. ‘Not another of Raymond’s wonder-boys, still wet behind the ears? You could have spared us that!’
‘No Algy, this one’s all right. Tough as they come and you know him rather well. Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein. Apparently he felt that since he couldn’t beat us, he’d better join us.’
Algy was still recovering from shock when the Air Commodore arrived — along with Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie — and the morning passed in detailed planning of the operation.
‘No need for me to emphasise the desperate importance of this enterprise,’ said Raymond. ‘You could say that the future security of the West depends on your success. James here has very decently agreed to take command.’
He looked around and gave his cold reptilian smile.
‘I take it, gentlemen, that that will meet with your approval?’
Three heads nodded their assent in unison.
‘Excellent! James seems to think the ideal aircraft for the operation would be a four-engined R.A.F. Hercules. It’s slower than a comparable jet but it has all the space and lifting power you’ll need and it’s adaptable and rugged, and can land almost anywhere. Bertie and Ginger, you’ve been trained for underwater operations and will be using standard Naval breathing gear. We’ve been discussing the retrieval of the missile from the lake-bed with the experts in the Royal Marine Commando, and they seem to think that it will present no great problem. They have their apparatus — lifting tackle, inflatable dinghies and so forth — and one of their best men, Major William Armstrong, will be travelling with you and taking charge of that side of things.’
‘Is he O.K., sir? Algy queried.
‘I wouldn’t suggest him if he weren’t,’ said Raymond with distinct acerbity. ‘Bit of a rough diamond, like all Marine Commandos, but you can take it from me, my boy — Bill Armstrong knows his onions. Now, there’s one further matter of considerable importance. I’ve been in contact with the Turkish government, and Turkey, as you know, is officially one of our N.A.T.O. allies. But — and it’s a big “but” I’m afraid — the last thing that they want is trouble with their Russian neighbours. So, very wisely in the circumstances, the Turks have said that they don’t want to know about you. The Hercules will have civilian markings and it’s up to you to be efficient and discreet. The last thing we can possibly afford is a diplomatic incident, and if anything goes wrong — and pray the Lord it won’t — the Foreign Office will disown you, and so, I’m afraid gentlemen, will I. Is that understood?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Algy, somewhat unenthusiastically. ‘But there’s one more important question — von Stalhein. I appreciate the need for working with him, but are we certain we can trust him? Just suppose he were a double agent after all? It’s not impossible.’
Raymond nodded.
‘Nice point, Algy, and the answer is we can’t be absolutely certain. We’ve checked and double-checked his story — so has the C.I.A. — and we’re sure as dammit that he’s genuine, but we’ve all been in this racket long enough to know that no one can be absolutely trusted.’
‘But surely, sir,’ said Biggles staunchly, ‘with someone like von Stalhein, whom we rescued from a Russian gaol ourselves, that’s inconceivable? Besides, we’ve checked his story about the Budnik and we know the Russians lost one exactly when he said.’
‘Agreed,’ said Raymond, ‘but since Algy asked the question, I have given you the proper answer. Trust nobody!
‘Where do we meet him, sir and when?’ asked Ginger.
‘In three days’ time in Istanbul. That should give you time to finish all your preparations, and you can fly to Turkey on Friday morning. The Americans will be delivering him there late that same afternoon. He will be staying that night at the Park Hotel under the name of Ingrams. You’re at the Istanbul Hilton. That way, you’ll have a chance to meet him properly, finalise your plans, and have a good night’s sleep and make an early start next morning. Any further questions?’
Algy shook his head.
‘You seem to have thought of everything, sir.’
‘I do my best,’ replied the Air Commodore, with a modest smile.
‘Well, what d’you think of her, old scout?’ bawled Algy over the racket of the thundering engines.
Biggles raised a gnarled thumb.
‘Not a bad old ship,’ he shouted back. ‘She’s certainly no bally Concorde, but she’s solid, I’ll say that for her.’
As he spoke, the last of the great grey pinnacles of the Alps had disappeared behind them in the glare of a perfect north Italian morning, and the chequerboard of Lombardy stretched green and succulent to the horizon. Ginger, Bertie and the heavy-featured Major Armstrong were sitting in the crew seats and behind them, in the big plane’s cavern of a cargo-hold, were stacked the packing-cases with the battery of equipment they required — rubber dinghies, two long wheel-based Land Rovers, underwater apparatus, lifting giear and a small armoury of weapons — ‘just in case’, as Biggles put it when he had supervised the loading earlier that morning.
Everyone was in the best of spirits, for jaunts like this were now becoming rare, and it was wonderful to be united as the chums had been in days gone by. Biggles was particularly euphoric, and however much he might pretend to be a businessman, there was no mistaking the expectant gleam in his hazel eyes at the prospect of a spot of action. He was still wonderfully preserved, and as Algy glanced towards that chiselled profile framed in the battered wartime flying helmet, he found it difficult to credit all the years that they had been together. The face was just a little fuller than when he had first caught sight of it at Maranique so many years before — only its enemies had changed. Once there were Halberstadts and Fokker triplanes. Now, that same face was questing missiles that could fly above the speed of sound. But there was something reassuring in the rock-like indestructibility of his oldest friend, his voice, his sayings, even his outbursts of ill-humour. No, he told himself, they don’t make chaps like Biggles any more.
Algy was interrupted from his reverie by the first gleam of the Adriatic under the starboard wing-tip. It was considered far too risky to fly over Yugoslavia and Bulgaria — there was no point in offering the opposition even the faintest chance of tracking them — so they continued down that narrow sea, skirted Albania, then went grinding on across the mountains of northern Greece. Algy was navigating and he got all the old airman’s satisfaction when Biggles brought the lumbering aircraft in to a perfect landing at Istanbul slap on schedule, late in the afternoon. Thanks to some neat liaison with the British Embassy, the Hercules was taken charge of by a troupe of swarthy gentlemen in white mechanics’ overalls, and twenty minutes later a discreet saloon was dropping the four friends by the outlandish gridiron of the Istanbul Hilton with its view across the Bosphorus.
‘Everything gone like clockwork, eh, old scout?’ said Biggles as he stretched himself and stepped out on his balcony to take in the stupendous view. ‘Always a bad sign if my experience is anything to go by. Still, let’s make the most of it. Ring for room service, Algy, there’s a good fellow. What’re you all drinking, Ginger, Bertie? How about a bottle of good champagne to start this whole affair in style?’
None of the chums took much persuading, and the bellboy was soon speeding on his way to execute their bidding. Two minutes later he was back with a glistening bottle on a silver tray.
‘Mr Bigglesworth?’ he said inquiringly.
Biggles nodded.
‘A package for you, sir — left at reception a few minutes ago.’ He handed Biggles a neatly tied brown parcel addressed in a florid European hand. ‘Anything else that you require, sir?’
Biggles shook his head and tipped the bellboy handsomely. ‘I’ll deal with the champagne myself,’ he said, then added, as he turned to Algy, ‘Who the devil can be sending me a present? No one’s supposed to know I’m here.’
‘Perhaps it’s a little keepsake from old Raymond,’ Algy replied. ‘You never know quite how the old thing will behave these days.’
‘More likely to have been left by von Stalhein for services rendered,’ chuckled Ginger. ‘Here, let’s have a look.’
But Biggles was already tugging at the wrapping.
‘Deuced difficult to open,’ he exclaimed. ‘Why will people use this blasted sellotape?’
In fact it was the sellotape that saved his life, for suddenly he froze, and then a moment later dashed across the room and hurled the parcel over the balcony.
‘What the devil are you up to, Biggles?’ asked an appalled Algy, who thought that his old chum had suddenly gone mad.
The answer to his question came from the street below — a quick explosion followed by the sickening noise of falling glass — and when the chums peered down, they saw a cloud of thick black smoke rising from the pavement.
‘Crikey, Biggles!’ Algy said, aghast. ‘Thank God your reactions are as good as ever. That would have blasted us to kingdom come.’
Biggles nodded grimly. ‘There was something ticking inside it, and half-a-pound of fulminate of mercury by the smell of it. Nice little visiting card to welcome us to Istanbul.’
‘But who the heck d’you think left it?’ Bertie asked.
‘Somebody who knows exactly why we’re here and disapproves of what we’re up to, my dear Watson,’ replied Biggles, breaking the tension with a somewhat artificial smile. ‘We were about to have a drink. I think we need it,’ he added, pouring the foaming liquid with a rocklike hand.
‘Mr Ingrams,’ said Biggles, thrusting out his hand. ‘It’s good to meet you after all this time. I trust you’re well.’
‘Ah, Mr Bigglesworth. The pleasure is entirely mine.’
The one harsh voice was softened by an unmistakable New England burr, and neatly brushed back grey hair had replaced the aggressive Prussian haircut Biggles knew so well. The duelling scars had disappeared, the nose was different and the gold-rimmed spectacles completely changed the aspect of those flinty eyes. Grey-suited, faintly hesitant, he could easily have been a prosperous American on holiday. Only the ramrod back and something familiar about the chin told Biggles that this was certainly von Stalhein.
One of the oddities about the Park Hotel — a heavily Germanic building in the centre of the city — is that it has its foyer on the ninth floor, and its restaurant on the first, so when introductions were completed, the party solemnly descended in the lift and entered the all but empty restaurant together. It was an awkward gathering to start with — despite the abundant Black Sea caviar Biggles had ordered in an attempt to liven the proceedings, for apart from the strangeness of working with a former enemy, the little expedition’s recent brush with death had made them nervy, and no one felt like small-talk.
‘Not good, not good at all,’ von Stalhein said, shaking his head as Biggles told him of the bomb attack. ‘You were all lucky to escape, but we must assume from this that the Russians know exactly why we’re here. The Turks had no idea, I take it, who left the parcel at the Hilton?’
‘None at all,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s the devil of it, and the police are taking it quite seriously. This sort of trouble with the authorities is just what we didn’t want.’
Von Stalhein sucked his teeth — a mannerism Biggles remembered of old.
‘You’ve no idea, of course, how this leak occurred?’ he asked finally.
Biggles shook his head. ‘Far too many people knew about this project from the start. Our people, the Americans...’ He raised his hands resignedly.
‘And me’ said von Stalhein softly. ‘Come now, gentlemen, we’re in this together, and we must be frank with one another. If I were in your place I’d be suspicious and there’s not much I can do to reassure you.’
‘I’d believe your word as an officer and a gentleman,’ said Biggles stiffly.
‘Ah, but would you in your heart of hearts? And even if you did, what about the others?’
‘Well, what the devil do we do?’ replied Biggles angrily. ‘Call the whole thing off because the Russians have found out about us, and we don’t trust each other? That’s ridiculous.’
‘But it could be the wisest course,’ said von Stalhein slowly. ‘Whatever happens, we are going to be up against a most determined enemy. Perhaps the odds against us are too great. You must decide.’
A long silence followed his remarks, broken in the end by Bertie Lissie.
‘Never heard such blinking nonsense in all my life,’ he drawled. ‘If this confounded missile thing is as important as everyone says, how can we possibly back out? Von Stalhein here says that he knows exactly where it is, and we’re equipped to bring it back. For God’s sake, let’s get on with it and cut the cackle!’
Biggles nodded.
‘My own thoughts in a nutshell, dear old chap,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t faced a spot of danger on and off in days gone by. Agreed, Ginger, Algy, Bill?’
The others nodded as one.
‘Excellent. Then that’s decided gentlemen!’ He faced von Stalhein. ‘That’s our decision, and we’ll trust you until you give us cause to do otherwise. Should that happen, you can expect no mercy from us. Fair enough?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied von Stalhein, with something of the old Prussian glitter in his eyes.
‘One thing we can do,’ continued Biggles, ‘is to win at least a certain element of surprise. We’d planned to fly at dawn. It mightn’t be a bad idea to act as if that’s still the plan, but meet here at eleven and depart at midnight. Oh, and one further thing, von Stalhein — as I’m sure you know, people who work with me call me Biggles — that goes for you as well.’
Von Stalhein gave one of his rare, slow smiles and finally replied, ‘O.K., Biggles. And my name’s Erich.’
It was raining heavily and a bitter wind was blowing from the Golden Horn, but take-off went without a hitch. Algy was navigating and had checked his course in detail with von Stalhein, while Biggles secured last minute clearance from the Turks — despite objections from a desperately anxious security officer from the British Embassy.
‘Confounded diplomats are all the same,’ growled Biggles as he eased the lumbering aircraft off the runway and the chums saw the rainswept lights of Istanbul recede below them.
‘How long d’you think we’ll take?’ he bawled to Algy.
‘Six hours at least,’ came the reply. ‘We should arrive just after dawn. According to Erich there’s a landing place that we can use about ten miles from the lake, but there’s a track of sorts that’ll be all right for the jeeps. Once we arrive it shouldn’t take too long. This time tomorrow night we could be on our way back to England, home and beauty.’
‘Touch wood quickly,’ Biggles answered with a grin. ‘Now, the rest of you had better get some sleep,’ he shouted. ‘It looks as if we’ll have a busy day ahead of us.’
Biggles was in his element at last, but as the great plane thundered eastwards at a height of 20,000 feet, more than one anxious pair of eyes was following its course on radar screens along the way.
‘Sorry, Bertie,’ Biggles said, ‘but it seems that you’re the odd man out. Somebody must stay behind to guard the plane, and Algy and Ginger both have work to do with their underwater gear when we reach the lake.’
‘Suits me, Biggles,’ replied the peer, stretching a lengthy leg and yawning. ‘Never have been one for water. That’s why 1 joined the R.A.F. you know. I’ll be O.K.’
‘Good man!’ said Biggles, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Are we ready, Bill? Let’s go!’
It was barely six o’clock, but an enormous orange-coloured sun was already glaring like a bloodshot eye across the plain and lifting the shadows from the distant mountains. The flight had passed without an incident and, half an hour before, Biggles had brought the aptly-named Hercules in for a perfect touch-down on the boulder-strewn plain. The chaps had breakfasted on steaming coffee from the galley, and everything was ready. No sooner had the aircraft rumbled to a halt, than the rear door on the fuselage swung open, ramps went down, and the first of the laden Land Rovers rolled out with Armstrong at the wheel. Algy followed in the second. For the journey, Biggles and von Stalhein travelled with Bill Armstrong, and Ginger in the second vehicle with Algy.
It proved a bumpy, often scary, journey, for the track was barely fit for mules and at times the Land Rovers were slithering and grinding round hairpin bends with nothing but the sheerest drop beneath them. Several times the passengers got out to push and Biggles was grateful to have von Stalhein there to lead the way.
‘Not far now, Biggles,’ he would say imperturbably, as he put his shoulder to the rear of the Land Rover and helped to heave it back onto the track, its wheels spinning on the shaley surface of the mountainside. Puffing away beside him, Biggles could do little but admire the older man’s resilience.
But finally the track began to level out, and soon they were travelling across a sort of rocky up and covered with patchy scrub and boulders. They had to ford a stream and finally reached a headland, and the water of the lake lay blue and very clear below them.
‘This is the place,’ von Stalhein said with brief excitement in his cold grey voice.
‘And where’s the missile lying?’ Biggles asked him quickly.
‘Just over there, beneath the cliff in about twenty feet of water. Come, I’ll show you!’
Von Stalhein jumped down from the cab and, sure-footed as a mountain goat, went bounding off towards the cliff, with the remainder of the expedition straggling behind him. When they finally caught up with him he was standing on the cliff-edge, pointing down towards the surface of the lake. Biggles was the first to join him.
‘It’s all right, Biggles,’ he said softly. ‘It’s still there. Can you see it? Just beyond those dark grey rocks.’
Biggles strained his eyes, but to start with could see nothing but the shimmering of sunlight on the rock-strewn lake-bed. Then, he spotted it — a long, grey, fish-like object half buried in the mud. This was the missile that could hold the West to ransom.
‘Can you see it, Bill?’ shouted Biggles excitedly. ‘Will it be difficult to salvage?’
‘Ought to be straightforward,’ said the expert sagely. ‘Of course, you can’t say for sure until you get down to it. We’ll bring the dinghies round and have a closer look.’
The hard work really started then. The sun was blazing down as they brought the Land Rover round to a shingly beach a mile or so away and started to unload. They had compressed air to inflate the dinghies but the lifting gear was heavy, and once more Biggles was amazed by von Stalhein’s toughness as he helped Bill Armstrong manhandle it in place. Then Ginger, Algy and Bill Armstong donned their rubber frogman’s gear and soon the two grey boats were churning up the placid waters of the lake.
Once they were above the missile, Armstrong went overboard to inspect it, and Biggles could see him clearly in the limpid water, like a large black frog with only the line of bubbles from his breathing mask to show that he was human. Soon he was surfacing and clinging to the dinghy’s side to report to Biggles.
‘No real problems as far as I can see,’ he gasped. ‘We should be able to fix a cable round her nose and tail fin, then winch her up and beach her.’
‘Good man,’ said Biggles with a grin. ‘In you go Algy, Ginger — and for Pete’s sake get a move on. We’ve a lot to do and I’d like to be on our way back home this afternoon.’
‘Right you are, Biggles,’ shouted Ginger as he fixed his nose-clip, and with a hefty kick submerged and followed Algy to the bottom of the lake. Biggles watched fascinated as the three black-suited frogmen started the slow business of fixing the nylon cable round the Budnik.
‘Ever done this sort of thing before, Biggles?’ asked von Stalhein as they waited in the gently rocking dinghy.
‘Never, thank God,’ said Biggles fervently. ‘The air’s my element. Anything in the water — or under it — gives me the creeps. What about you?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind too much,’ von Stalhein answered, in that strange, formal way he had of speaking. ‘During the last war, you know, I took a special course with German U-boats and they used to tell me drowning was a very easy death. Does the idea of dying worry you then, Biggles?’
‘Not any more,’ said Biggles with a faint smile. ‘As long as it’s fairly quick.’ He glanced across the glittering surface of the lake, to where the heat-haze made the far-off mountains shimmer in the heat. Tunny conversation to be having in such a peaceful spot,’ he added. ‘Wonder how they’re getting on down there?’
As if in answer came a tug from the sea-line that connected one of the dinghies with the bottom of the lake, and when Biggles peered through the water he could see Armstrong signalling that the cables were secure and it was time to pull away.
The dinghies were connected with a specially devised platform on which the small hand-winch was bolted. Biggles took one handle, von Stalhein the other, and when they heaved they felt the sudden lift as the tail of the Budnik escaped the mud and floated free. Then the nose came up, and slowly, turn by turn, the long black shape was lifted until it hung between the dinghies like a captive whale. Armstrong passed a final cable round it to secure it, then raised his hand to Biggles — who could see the smile of satisfaction on his face beneath the frogman’s mask. The next moment he was heaving himself aboard — followed swiftly by Ginger and Algy.
‘Fine piece of work. Well done!’ exclaimed Biggles, as he started the first of the outboard motors. ‘All that we’ve got to do now is deliver this piece of scrap-iron back to Raymond and our duty’s done.’
The other outboard started and the ungainly vessel turned in a wide arc and headed back towards the vehicles.
‘Couldn’t have been easier,’ chortled Ginger. ‘And you know, Biggles, I thoroughly enjoy this underwater business. You ought to have a go yourself. You know you’d...’
Suddenly his voice cut short, and the smile froze on his lips.
‘D’you hear what I hear?’ shouted Algy.
Biggles nodded imperturbably.
‘Thought it was too good to be true,’ he muttered. ‘Chopper, by the sound of it, eh Ginger?’
Ginger throttled down the outboard motors and now they could all hear the steadily increasing thwack-thwack-thwack of an approaching helicopter
‘Could be a Turkish government machine,’ said Algy hopefully. ‘They use them to patrol the border further north.’
‘And it could be my Aunty Fanny,’ answered Biggles rudely, as the outline of a big twin-engined Russian military helicopter came over the nearby range of mountains. For a while it hovered like a cautious dragon-fly over the far end of the lake. Then slowly it began to edge towards them.
‘I’d give everything I’ve got for a Lewis gun, old chap,’ said Algy.
‘Wouldn’t do much good, I fear,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’re at the blighter’s mercy and he knows it. Give him a lovely smile and hope to goodness he’s impressed.’
By now the din was deafening and the helicopter hovered less than twenty feet above them. For a moment Biggles wondered if it would open fire, knowing full well that in a moment it could blast them all to kingdom come. At such close quarters it was like being sniffed at by a hungry beast of prey — but finally the beast lost interest, dipped its tail, and roared away. As it did so, Biggles could clearly see the impassive faces of the pilot and co-pilot staring down at him. Two minutes later the helicopter had vanished over the mountain whence it came, and peace and stillness were restored to the lake.
‘Phew!’ said Algy, ‘and what d’you think that was in aid of?’
‘Blowed if I know,’ said Biggles, ‘but they’ve made it pretty clear that they know exactly what we’re up to and can pick us up whenever they feel inclined.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Not much we can do, dear old chap,’ Biggles answered with a wistful grin. ‘We can’t stay in the middle of this blasted lake, and we’ve only one way back — the way we came. I guess we’ll have to take it.’
‘What about the missile?’ Ginger asked.
‘That comes too, of course,’ said Biggles quickly. ‘That was what we came to get, and while there’s life, there’s hope.’
‘You think the Russians must have tracked us here by radar?’ said Biggles to von Stalhein. ‘They obviously knew what we were up to from the start, and after the failure of their bomb attempt in Istanbul, decided to risk sending that helicopter in to catch us with our pants down.’
‘Pants down, Biggles? I don’t understand,’ replied von Stalhein.
‘Colloquial English phrase, old boy. Means when we’re particularly vulnerable. Dashed awkward situation to be in.’
Biggles and von Stalhein were in the leading Land Rover with Algy and Ginger, bumping and slithering their way back down the mountain track. Behind them came the second vehicle, driven by the unflappable Bill Armstrong, whose only passenger was now the Budnik, all twelve feet of it, secured on a specially constructed cradle so that its snout protruded over the front of the bonnet, and its tail hung from the rear. Thanks to Bill Armstrong’s preparations, the winching of the Budnik on to the Land Rover had gone like clockwork. The dinghies and the other pieces of equipment had been left behind, the sun was high in the clearest of blue skies, and but for that single visit of the Russian helicopter, everybody would have been elated. Instead, they made their journey now clutching their weapons and imagining that any minute could be their last.
But nothing happened. The long trail down the mountainside was still as deserted as when they came, and by early afternoon they could see the dusty plain below. Shortly after this, Biggles shouted, ‘Well, the old Hercules is where we left her. You never know, miracles could still have happened.’.
‘They could, old boy,’ said Ginger realistically, ‘but in this case something makes me doubt it.’
But the closer they approached the Hercules, the more it seemed that Biggles could be right. The great aircraft was exactly as they left it — the ramps still down, the rear door open, the big propellors glinting in the sun. As he approached the aircraft, Biggles accelerated with excitement at the thought that there was still a chance to get away, and put his thumb down on the horn. But there was no reply.
‘Funny,’ said Biggles, as he circled the aircraft and still saw no sign of life. ‘Perhaps old Bertie’s gone to sleep. Can’t say I blame him.’
He drew up by the ramps and, clutching his revolver, entered the big cargo section of the Hercules with Ginger just behind him.
‘Bertie,’ he shouted. ‘Where the devil are you?’
Still no reply, and Biggles scrambled forward to kick open the small door that led into the cockpit section of the plane. The door swung inwards, and at that instant Biggles saw two figures sitting on the crew seats facing him. They wore olive-coloured uniforms and held sub-machine-guns in their hands.
‘Mr Bigglesworth,’ said a third figure standing behind them. ‘I think you should drop your gun. Someone might get hurt.’
As these words were spoken, several other Russians, who had been carefully concealed in the cargo-hold, revealed themselves, so that in one sudden moment Biggles’ group was expertly surrounded. Out of the corner of his eye, Biggles could see that Algy was just about to make a fight of it. His gun was poised, and had he fired there would have been dreadful carnage, but Biggles quickly shouted, ‘Drop it Algy! There’s no point old boy.’ Algy did as he was told.
‘Very wise, Mr Bigglesworth,’ said the character who seemed to be in charge, a short, somewhat chunky figure in a nondescript grey suit. With his enormous shoulders, heavy brows and boxer’s jaw, he could have been an all-in-wrestler or dance-hall bouncer, but he was very much in command, and spoke near-perfect English.
‘Where’s our friend, Bertie Lissie?’ Biggles muttered.
‘Quite safe and sound I can assure you. He put up something of a fight, and we had to deal with him, but I think that there’s no lasting damage. He’s in the forward cargo locker. You can see him in a minute, but first, if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.’
An order was barked out in Russian, and Biggles and his friends were swiftly searched.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the Russian when they were totally disarmed. ‘I should introduce myself. My name is Leovitch of the Soviet K.G.B. I feel that I should thank you gentlemen for the expert work you did in salvaging my country’s property from that lake. My helicopter pilot radioed a most flattering report of the operation. He should be back here any moment now, and then we can be on our way.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘We’re not taking you anywhere, Mr Bigglesworth. You’re taking us, in this splendid aeroplane of yours, together with the Budnik. Have you heard of the city of Batumi? It’s on the Russian Black Sea coast about three hundred miles to the north, of here. There is a military airport and my countrymen will be glad to see you all at last. We have several scores to settle with your so-called Special Air Police.’
‘I would advise you not to try anything of the sort, Mr Leovitch, or whatever you call yourself,’ barked Biggles. ‘We are in neutral territory, and kidnapping’s a serious international offence. We will demand to see the official British representative in your country.’
The Russian cut him short.
‘Really, Mr Bigglesworth, don’t make me laugh! This is the twentieth century and your silly little country counts for very little.’
Biggles flushed at this, and made as if to strike the grinning Russian.
‘How dare you, sir!’ he shouted.
But one of the Russians already had Biggles’ arm in an agonising lock behind his back and another thrust the muzzle of his automatic in his ribs.
‘Now, now. Calm down, Mr Bigglesworth,’ purred Leovitch. ‘There really is no time for this sort of nonsense, and you can discuss it with your interrogators in Moscow.’ He followed this with a quick order in Russian, and the members of the little expedition were herded to the front of the aircraft, their hands above their heads.
As von Stalhein passed the K.G.B. man, Biggles heard the Russian shout the word ‘traitor’ at him, and there was a hideous thud as a gun butt caught the Prussian on the head. But von Stalhein scarcely seemed to notice, and managed to smile ruefully at Biggles.
‘Charming people, don’t you think?’ he said quietly in English.
Seconds later the Land Rover with the Budnik came bumping up the ramps with one of the Russians at the wheel. The rear door closed, and Leovitch turned to Biggles.
‘Now, Mr Bigglesworth,’ he said in his oiliest manner. ‘Into the cockpit with you please — and you too, Mr Lacey. It’s time we took off for Batumi. Our mission’s nearly over.’
‘What if I refuse?’ growled Biggles.
‘Then I shall be obliged to shoot you both. It will be regrettable, of course, and your sacrifice will prove quite useless, for I can easily radio the helicopter for a Russian pilot. It will delay us by an hour or so, that’s all.’
‘What d’you think, Algy?’ Biggles asked his friend.
‘Don’t seem to have much choice, old scout, and that’s a fact,’ replied Algy realistically. ‘It’s pretty sickening it has to end like this, but all the same...’
‘Good!’ snapped the Russian. ‘Then we can prepare at once for take-off. If you are sensible, I’ll do my best to see that your cooperation is mentioned at your trial in Moscow. We Russians are not as heartless as your Western statesmen paint us.’
‘I should save your breath, Leovitch, muttered Biggles.
The memory of that flight was one that haunted Biggles for the remainder of his life. It was bad enough to have to fly an aircraft with the cold muzzle of an automatic thrust against his neck, but worse was the sense of dreadful failure in his heart. Biggles was not a loser — and he was all too well aware of the dire consequences of his failure to bring back the Budnik to the West.
His course lay almost due north and he circled the take-off area to gain height before facing the first range of mountains. Heavily laden as she was, the Hercules climbed slowly in the thin mountain air, so that the highest peaks seemed perilously close as they thundered on above them.
Leovitch was sitting in the navigator’s seat where he could check the course, and suddenly he gave a cry of horrified alarm.
‘Increase height,’ he ordered. ‘We nearly hit that crag below us. Can’t you see, you idiot?’
‘Did we?’ said Biggles nonchalantly. ‘I didn’t notice.’
Another peak loomed ahead.
‘Look out, for God’s sake!’ yelled the Russian.
Biggles screwed up his eyes, and pretended to peer around him in surprise. Only when it seemed as if the Hercules must surely crash head on against the granite face of rock, did he touch the throttle, flip the great aircraft’s wings slightly to one side, and pass the mountain peak with feet to spare.
‘Maniac!’ screamed the Russian. ‘Increase height, I order you!’
But Biggles shook his head and shrugged his shoulders sadly.
‘Impossible,’ he said, and pointed through the cockpit window at one of the starboard engines. It had stopped. He held three fingers up towards the Russian to emphasise his point.
‘Only three engines left,’ he whispered. ‘There’s not much chance, but I’ll do my best.’
Algy said later that the next half hour was the finest piece of virtuoso flying he had ever witnessed in his life. The Hercules was crossing range upon range of mountains, but Biggles flew that underpowered transport plane like a stunt machine as he took it down the valleys and went zooming up between the mountain passes, dodging inevitable death by inches. Sometimes the aircraft seemed to stall and then recover in the nick of time. Once, its wing-tip brushed against a fir-tree on a jagged mountain-side. The horror seemed to mount and Biggles threw up his hands.
‘More height,’ begged the Russian now ‘Can’t you do anything? You’ll kill us all.’
His voice was weak with fear, but once more Biggles shook his head.
‘I think we’re getting trouble with another engine,’ he said hopelessly. ‘We’ll never make it to Batumi, will we Algy?’
‘Not a hope in hell,’ his chum replied.
Another mountain range, higher than the last, was looming up ahead.
‘What can we do?’ the Russian moaned. ‘Not much choice, old chap,’ said Biggles sombrely. ‘Either we crash or we change course. From the map you’ll see we’re twenty miles or so from a place called Ezerum and there’s an airport there. Which is it to be, Leovitch?’
There was a moment’s pause in which the Russian’s fear did battle with his sense of duty. It was his fear that won.
‘Change course,’ he whispered finally and, just in time, Biggles pulled the huge machine round in a spectacular turn and headed west for Ezerum.
Even there it seemed that trouble wasn’t over. It was a small airport, and as the Hercules came in to land, the out-of-action starboard engine suddenly revived.
‘Look out, old chap, we’ll overshoot!’ yelled Algy. ‘Take her up again.’
‘Too late, old boy,’ Biggles shouted back, and there was a sickening thud as the undercarriage hit a drainage ditch on the perimeter of the field and shattered. A hideous racket followed as the aircraft slithered to a halt on its fuselage, and the wing-tip caught a marker beacon.
‘Well,’ said Biggles with a look of quiet satisfaction on his face, ‘I certainly made a bish of that one. Sorry, Leovitch old chap, but at least we’re all alive.’ It was several weeks before the diplomats and politicians sorted out the upset caused by the crash-landing of a British aircraft, with a British crew, a defecting Prussian and a dozen or so heavily armed Soviet troops aboard, at the Turkish town of Ezerum. Ambassadors were summoned, and protest notes exchanged before the affair blew over and the Turks released their unwelcome foreign visitors and sent them packing.
Not that any of this diplomatic shindig really mattered, and Biggles never did discover quite what bargaining went on behind the scenes to make sure that the Budnik found its way from Turkey back to London and then on to the United States — not to mention von Stalhein, who was safely returned to his new life in America.
All that he really knew for sure, was that when he and the chums returned to London several pounds lighter after their fortnight in a Turkish gaol, the Air Commodore insisted on dining them all in style at the Blazers’ Club. Indeed, that cantankerous old gentleman had never seemed more grateful or more charming to them in his life.
‘When are you coming back to join us, Biggles?’ he inquired as the evening ended.
‘Give me time to think, sir,’ Biggles answered with a grin. ‘I’ve only just got out of prison.’