Mario drove the red convertible with a casual ferocity that had Ben holding on as he cut every corner to catch them. There was no alternative. Once aboard the flight, they would disappear forever. Alena sat behind the driver, leaning forward, urging him to go even faster.
Before they left the compound, the maid had called Mario back and whispered to him that she had heard the Germans talking about Morón, not the new Ministro Pistarini. ‘That would make sense,’ he said. ‘They’re more likely to avoid the international airport and take a chartered flight.’
For all Mario’s skilful manoeuvring, they couldn’t catch the fleeing Nazis. The maid had informed him that many cars left together. And Ben feared they might have split up with some heading for the airport while others went by road to the nearby border with Uruguay. If correct, they could arrive at Morón to find that Freddie was already in another country.
When not banging on the driver’s seat, Alena clasped her hands in frustration and rocked to and fro as if to increase their speed. And she was oblivious to anything he said to her.
‘The problema,’ Mario shouted above the buffeting wind, ‘is the airport is a big place, and we don’t know which flight they’re taking.’
Pickering said nothing but lit his pipe, sending a cloud of smoke billowing in their wake, and pulled on his beard as he stared into space.
Mario had phoned his compatriots, ordering them to go to the airport to look for the Nazis and the woman and boy. Ben doubted it would yield results, but the more men on the ground, the better. There had been no sightings, and his hopes were fading fast as they arrived. To the consternation of a traffic cop, they stopped in a no-waiting zone, but he walked away when the second car drove alongside. The rest of Ronnie’s group were following in a truck and would arrive after the action. Although armed, Ronnie’s agents had concealed their weapons so as not to attract the attention of the police.
‘Split up into pairs,’ Ben said. ‘Spread out and get searching. If you spot them, alert us.’
He teamed up with Alena. Ronnie ordered Pickering to join her. Mario partnered a French agent. And the others formed the fourth couple. A quick scan of the interior gleaned nothing. He did not know who they were looking for, but they would be male. Natalie and Freddie could have been hidden anywhere, perhaps in a toilet or an unused storeroom, to be brought out when ready to board. Instead of being together, the men were likely sitting in pairs or singly so as not to attract attention. The obvious targets were boys, then women and those of Germanic appearance.
The building was as big as an aircraft hangar and crowded. He should have expected it of a busy airport with scheduled flights, run by a variety of airlines to all parts of the continent. Solo travellers, couples, elderly people and families filled the space, and it hummed with excited voices and shrieks as children chased each other weaving in and out of the throng. Alena studied everyone with an unblinking stare as if able to see through metal doors and her face showed an increasing desperation as she ruled out possible targets. She focused only on children, so he concentrated on finding Natalie. Her distinctive long black hair should be easy to spot, but too many wore hats or headscarves, making identification all the harder.
As they moved deeper into the building, he tried to fathom how they would engineer their escape. He doubted they would travel by scheduled flight with a hostage struggling and calling out. They must have chartered a plane, and the authorities would ease their departure. Once in the air, they would be free to go anywhere.
Departure boards listed flights to destinations all around the continent, but he ignored those and walked over to a window overlooking the runway. Planes awaited passengers and, at the far end of the field, a solitary aircraft stood outside a smaller building. At the gate closest to him, tickets and passports were being checked. Three men, perhaps travelling alone, and two women, one young and the other, older and clutching a package. In mounting frustration, his gaze swept the area, then he saw her. He would have recognised that black hair anywhere, tucked under a green beret. She sat with her back to the main concourse, and he hesitated, searching for Muller’s men nearby.
A mixture of emotions coursed through him. Were they using Natalie as a decoy while they smuggled the boy out of the country by a different route?
He walked up and placed a hand on her shoulder, expecting her to make a run for it, but she turned in surprise. She was older than Natalie and scowled and swore. Raising both hands in apology, he offered a diffident smile and retreated. But she kept cursing and complaining to those around her, and her protests alerted a policeman walking towards him.
There was a tap on his shoulder and he wheeled fearing the worst.
Urgency spread across Mario’s broad face, and he spoke so fast he stumbled over the words. ‘Definitely a charter.’ He pointed towards the end of the airfield. ‘It’s that Lancastrian. People are being bussed out now.’
A dark green vehicle was traversing the field. ‘Damn! You sure?’
‘I saw a woman and a boy.’
By the time Alena joined them, the bus had stopped, and passengers were stepping onto the tarmac. She followed their stare and gripped Ben tight. From this distance, it was hard to identify them. A blond man was directing the others and an older white-haired man, moved as if in pain and supported by two thickset men. A woman wearing a headscarf clutched a boy’s hand. The boy kept glancing back as if looking for someone, and she appeared to be cajoling him to climb aboard.
‘Oh, my God, it’s Freddie,’ Alena said. ‘Freddie,’ she called and moved towards the doors leading onto the airfield.
‘Stop,’ he shouted, but she had discarded her shoes and was running full pelt across the tarmac, her hair streaming behind like wings.
As Ronnie charged up to them with Pickering labouring in her wake, three Germans blocked their path. One carried a 9mm MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol and pointed it at them.
‘Get inside,’ he ordered in a German accent. ‘You’ll be free once the plane is airborne if you do as I say.’
As people around them scrambled for safety, screaming in fear and deserting baggage and belongings, another German took out a Luger. He motioned them over to where the rest of Ronnie’s team sat cross-legged on the floor with their hands on heads. ‘Over there. Now!’
He scanned the area. The police had melted away. They would refuse to come to their aid as the Nazis escaped with Freddie. And they would end up being shot once the plane departed. He wondered if any of the French agents still had a weapon.
As the doors of the Lancastrian shut and the four propellers started up, Ronnie shouted: ‘Look. It’s moving.’
The call distracted the Nazi carrying the Schmeisser, and Ronnie stepped forward, drawing a pistol from her bag and shooting him in the chest. He fell backwards, spraying bullets around the terminal, eliciting more screams as bystanders ducked for cover. In that moment of hesitation, one of Ronnie’s agents pulled out his concealed weapon and fired, the shots sounding like exploding champagne corks.
He grabbed Pickering and dragged him to safety behind a table. Mario followed, eyes wide open in fear. The firefight didn’t last long. But the ensuing silence appeared to last an eternity as if time had fractured and everything was moving in slow motion. Clouds of gun smoke caught their breath and cartridges skittered on the stone floor. Three Germans were down. Two motionless. Another twitching and moaning in the throes of death. One French agent was dead. And Pickering was holding an arm.
‘It’s okay, old man, just a flesh wound.’ He attempted a smile.
There was no sign of Ronnie. And then he saw she was lying on her side as if an unseen force had slammed her against a counter. He made to go over, but Pickering pulled him back.
‘They’re getting away.’ The plane was taxiing towards the runway.
‘Ronnie?’ He was undecided. Help her or go after them.
‘I’ll take care of her,’ Pickering said, wincing as he clutched his wounded arm. ‘Go now.’
‘Mario, the car keys,’ Ben ordered, and the Argentine threw them to him.
He had no plan, but he sprinted out of the terminal and jumped into the car. Alena was still running towards the Lancastrian, but she had little chance of catching it. He aimed the convertible at a gate used by the petrol tankers and floored the accelerator. The Lancastrian’s engines roared as it turned before moving onto the runway.
‘It’s okay, Alena, I’m on my way,’ he shouted, but the noise and wind swallowed his voice.