Sahara Crosswind Page 9

  Frank Towers stretched out his lanky frame as much as the cramped cockpit would allow. “After the fighting was over, I didn’t have much to go home to. Then this mission group came by the church I was attending at our air base in England, said they were planting some schools down here and asked if maybe I’d fly out supplies. Craziest thing I ever heard of, but somehow I sorta felt like I was being called to help out. One thing led to another, and now all of a sudden I’ve got a name down here. Got more and more folks coming by, asking me to take this and that to places I never even heard of before, can’t hardly find them on the map first time out.”

  He gave an expansive grin. “Things’ve gotten so busy I’m about ready to buy my second plane. Don’t suppose either of you boys knows how to fly a crate?”

  “Not a chance,” Jake said.

  “Sorry,” Pierre replied.

  “No matter. There’s a lot of fly-boys out there looking for something that’ll keep ’em in the air. It’d be nice to find another believer, though.”

  Jake swiveled in his seat and gave Pierre a long hard look. The Frenchman’s features screwed up momentarily before he nodded slowly.

  Jake turned back and said, “Seems to me we should trust you with our story.”

  “Well, now, there ain’t nothing I like much better than a good yarn. ‘Specially when we got a full day of flying stretching out in front of us.”

  “A day?” Pierre exclaimed.

  “Where are we going?” Jake asked.

  “Oh, guess I didn’t tell you.” The wide-mouth grin reappeared. “Either of you boys ever had any thought of visiting Malta?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Let me see if I got this straight,” Frank Towers said, sipping cold coffee with one hand while the other guided their thundering craft over sparkling blue Mediterranean waters. “You’re aiming on stepping off this plane and going straight to the British authorities—”

  “Or whatever authorities are in charge,” Jake corrected.

  “Son, the only folks in charge on Malta are the British, and they ain’t near as much in charge as they’d like. But let’s leave that for a while.” He was enjoying himself immensely. “So you aim on marching straight up to the chief honcho himself and apologizing on account of the fact that one set of papers are traveling across the Sahara with the wrong fella, namely the major’s very own long-lost twin brother, who just happens to be wearing his uniform. Meanwhile, the colonel’s ID is in some backwater sultan’s rear pocket. Then you’re gonna spin this tale about an admiral perched at the other end of the Med who thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas and how you need to borrow one of his boats so you can get to France and save the country.”

  Slowly Frank shook his head. “Man, are you ever in for a shock.”

  “It’s not a tale,” Jake insisted. “It’s the truth. All of it.”

  “Oh, I believe you. Trouble is, I doubt if you’d get past the corporal of the guard without papers, and sure as granny’s lost spectacles he ain’t gonna risk his stripes on any yarn like that one.”

  Pierre leaned forward and said, “Enlighten us.”

  “Right. To begin with, Malta was hit sixteen ways from Sunday in the war. The island’s been a British enclave for a donkey’s years, and they were using it as the main supply point for the desert war, and then for the invasion of Italy. Perfect place for a supply point, let me tell you. That’s why I’ve set up there. It’s the closest you can come to North Africa and still find a taste of home. So where was I?”

  “The war,” Jake said, staring out the window. Sparkling sunlit water stretched out in every direction as far as he could see. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and yet he could not help but feel as though it did not belong. So much water.

  “Right. The Germans bombed it with everything they had, and the Maltese put up with it. They’re a tough bunch. Scrappy. They like the British, and they hated the Germans, but now that the war’s over, they want to be repaid for all they did by getting their independence. And the British, bless their souls, they’d probably give it to them, give or take another coupla hundred years. Only the Maltese figure they’ve earned the right to rule themselves now. And they’re getting jumpy, if you know what I mean. So here you’ve got an important naval depot, hundreds of ships, a city that’s gone through years of bombing, and people that’re fast running out of patience.”

  “Confusion,” Pierre offered. “Chaos.”

  “You said it. Whole island reminds me of the time a squirrel crawled up the leg of my daddy’s overalls.”

  * * *

  Malta was a rocky jewel set in the glittering azure of the Mediterranean. The capital, Valletta, was a hodgepodge of structures and styles. Steep-sided hills rising from the water were crammed with buildings from many different eras. A number were in ruins.

  “Seems like everybody’s conquered Malta at one time or another,” Frank Towers told them. “Romans, Greeks, Arabs, Turks, French, British, Italians, even the Holy Roman Empire. Every one of ’em’s ended up cussing at the Maltese people’s stubbornness and their clannishness. They’re proud, these people. Reminds me of folks back home. But their islands were too small to build up a strong army. So they’ve had to put up with more than their share of foreign tyrants.”

  Valletta was dominated by the Grand Harbor, and the harbor by a large central spit of land, and the spit by an ancient fortress—or more accurately, a dozen fortresses built like crumbling steps one upon the other. From the air, much of the capital looked the same, with houses and official buildings alike erected upon the ruins of other, older structures.

  When Jake commented on that, Towers replied, “I heard a tale the first time I touched down here. Back before the war a Roman bath was discovered directly under Valletta’s central fish market. It was so well preserved that archaeologists flocked here from all over the world. Trouble was, these experts found themselves working in a steady rain of fish scales and rotting garbage, on account of the Maltese absolutely refused to move their fish market someplace else. Why should they? Another conqueror, more ruins, who cared?”

  The Grand Harbor was a vast rock-lined sea perhaps ten miles wide and laced with numerous inlets, all filled with British ships, both merchant and navy. The waters gleamed gold and copper in the late afternoon sun. Jake said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many warships in one place before.”

  “This place is no stranger to men of war,” the pilot agreed. “Not to war either. Like I said, the Germans bombed it almost every day for three solid years. Sometimes as many as fifty air sorties every day.”

  “It’s a wonder anyone survived.”

  “You’d be surprised. Like you can see, the main town here was blasted to smithereens, a lot of it, anyway. Except the churches. They’re in pretty good shape, overall. Strange how the Germans managed to shoot around the biggest buildings like that. Anyway, most of the islanders lived through it to tell the tale, hunkered down in these big ol’ caves. Like I said, they’re a stubborn lot, these Maltese. They just plain refused to give in. Worked like the dickens to help the Allies. The king gave them the George Cross. First time an entire people was ever granted such an honor.”

  They flew inland to the airfield near the village of Luqa. As they entered into their final approach, Towers had Jake and Pierre return to their hiding places in the cargo hold.

  They landed with a thud and rolled across an uneven surface. As the brakes squealed and the engines drummed to a halt, Jake bundled the burlap wrapping up and around him. The air ached in the sudden silence.

  “Not a peep from either one of you,” Towers warned, passing down the hold’s central gangway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you hear voices, play dead.”

  The winch creaked noisily as the rear loading platform was lowered. A fresh breeze blew through the hold. Through the burlap Jake smelled fragrances he seemed to recall from another lifetime—flowers, pine, ripening earth, a hint of the sea.

  The minutes stretched into
endless hours, and Jake fought against the restlessness of cramped and aching muscles. He dozed for a time, jerked awake as voices came within range and then passed by, dozed again.

  The light had faded and the evening breeze had turned cool by the time Frank Towers returned. “Okay,” he said softly. “Coast is clear.”

  Jake tossed aside the burlap over his face and scratched his scalp. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight.”

  Another heap of burlap groaned, shivered, and fell to reveal a vastly disgruntled Pierre. “Which day?”

  “I don’t think I can move,” Jake said.

  “Had to wait until things settled down for the night,” Towers said, crouching over a canvas duffel. He pulled out two zip-up flight coveralls and tossed them toward the groaning men. “Slip these on. If anybody stops us, you’re new crew I’ve taken on for the second plane.”

  With every muscle complaining, Jake stripped and dressed in the airman’s one-piece uniform. He rolled up his army dress and tucked it in the canvas sack. “You really think this is necessary?”

  “Hard to say. But at least this way your friends in Gibraltar will be able to grease your slide in, if you see what I mean.”

  “It makes sense,” Pierre agreed.

  “So what now?” Jake asked.

  “You two look dead on your feet,” Towers replied. “Some friends of mine run a little guesthouse down the road a ways. Nothing fancy, but the food’s good and the beds are clean.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Jake said, suddenly ravenous. “But we don’t have any money on us.”

  “Don’t you worry about that just yet, I’ll take care of it and you can pay me back later. We’ll just get you settled in there for what’s left of the night. I’ve got an idea of how we can move forward, but it’s gonna mean an early start tomorrow.” Towers grinned at Jake’s almost silent moan. “Like they say, Colonel, you can sleep when the war’s over.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  They were up and out before dawn, rumbling down the steeply sloped terrain in a car that appeared to be held together with spit and baling wire. Jake’s single cup of coffee before departure had barely dented his drowsiness. But five minutes into the journey he was as awake as he had ever been in his entire life.

  He leaned forward and said, “Do you think maybe you could ask the driver to slow down a little?”

  “Wouldn’t do a bit of good,” Towers replied cheerfully. “Folks around these parts say the Maltese don’t drive on the left or the right, but in the shade. And they’re taught to drive fast to keep up a steady breeze.”

  The ancient vehicle raced down the hillside so fast the dawn-tinted vista outside Jake’s window was reduced to a pallid blur. Every now and then, tendrils of fog teased their way across the street, obliterating all view of what lay ahead. “How can he see where we’re going?”

  “Probably can’t,” Towers said. “But there aren’t many roads on this island. He knows every twist and turn by heart.”

  Jake decided that watching was doing his nerves no good whatsoever, so he turned to his friend. No help there. Pierre’s face was an interesting shade of green. He turned back to the front. “How can you sit there so unconcerned?”

  “Oh, I’ve found that driving around this island does my prayer life a powerful lot of good,” Towers replied easily.

  They crested a final rise, and the city of Valletta came into view. Below them stretched a web of narrow, hilly streets, running down to the Grand Harbor and the Mediterranean’s glorious blue. “The city was built by the Knights of St. John after they were kicked out of the Holy Land by the Ottomans,” Towers told them. “The original Knights of St. John were founded around the year eleven hundred. They were people who helped Christians visiting the Holy Land, which wasn’t all that easy with the Ottomans in charge. Charles of Spain gave them the island after the Arabs finally kicked them out of Jerusalem, and they came here and built the fortress you see down there. They made Valletta the capital in 1530.”

  Whenever the narrow lanes reached a level patch, they opened into great stone-lined squares. Imposing churches stood surrounded by solid North Africa-type houses. Their little taxi whizzed through the empty plazas, then plunged back into rutted ways as pitched and tilting as a roller coaster track. Signs of war and ruin were everywhere.

  “The knights were known as the fighting monks,” Towers went on, seemingly oblivious to the taxi’s death-defying speed. “Six hundred of them and four thousand locals fought and held off an invasion of thirty thousand Ottomans. But with time the knights became richer and forgot that they were supposed to be brothers to the locals and not princes. Knight-generals started trying to outshine whatever their predecessors had built, blind to everything but their own selfish desires for earthly grandeur. The islanders were forgotten, ignored, and grew poorer. The gulf widened, and so when the French came at the end of the eighteenth century, the islanders welcomed them with open arms. They remained under the French until the British took control during the Napoleonic wars.”

  The driver turned onto a grand boulevard lined with imposing buildings of state. “The main street of Valletta, Sta de Real,” Towers said. “We’re almost there now.”

  They turned onto another nameless alley and stopped before a tiny shop that differed from its neighbors only because the metal outer door had been drawn halfway up and because a crowned symbol over the shuttered window proclaimed that this was a local post office. Frank Towers was already out of the taxi before it had fully halted. He tapped on the door, which was opened by a sleep-touseled older gentleman. The man shook Frank’s hand and motioned impatiently for Jake and Pierre to enter.

  Once they had slipped into the little shop, the proprietor slid the metal portal back down. He lifted the ancient lantern and led them into the back room, then set the lantern upon a table that was bare save for an ancient telegraph set. He seated himself, coded in, waited, listened at his headset, coded again. The minutes passed in silence. Finally he straightened, looked up at Frank Towers, and nodded once.

  “Okay, boys, it’s all yours.”

  Jake looked at him. “What is?”

  “You said you had buddies in Gibraltar, didn’t you? Okay, now’s your chance. Only make it fast. I promised the old gent here we’d be done and gone before he opened for the day.”

  Jake seated himself, scrunched his head in concentration, then requested a patch-through to the Gibraltar garrison. The minutes dragged until the code sounded. He keyed in, THIS IS COLONEL JAKE BURNES. URGENT I SPEAK IMMEDIATELY WITH COMMANDER TEAVES OR ADMIRAL BINGHAM. TOP PRIORITY.

  Again there was an interminable wait. Jake turned and asked for a pad and pencil, which would make the return messages easier to read clearly. Finally the set coded back, TEAVES HERE. REQUEST CONFIRMATION OF WHO IS ON THE LINE.

  Jake grinned. Commander Harry Teaves was an American Naval officer assigned garrison duty in Gibraltar, and the man who helped them during their hunt for Patrique. Jake keyed in, HELLO HARRY. HOW ARE MILLIE AND THE APES?

  The response was instantaneous. JAKE, YOU OLD JOKER. KNEW YOU WERE TOO TOUGH TO HOLD DOWN. SORRY TO INFORM YOU RECEIVED REPORT OF YOUR DEMISE SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK OF BEYOND. ASSUME YOU ARE THEREFORE SPEAKING FROM HEAVEN.

  Jake said to Pierre, “Somebody’s claimed the reward on my head.”

  “It appears they try to use your papers as evidence,” Pierre agreed, squinting to decipher Jake’s handwriting. “Pity we must disappoint them.”

  Jake keyed in, YOU ARE NOT FAR OFF. AM IN MALTA.

  There was a moment’s pause, then, NO DOUBT A STORY THERE BUT MUST WAIT. SERVAIS WITH YOU?

  ONE OF THEM. PATRIQUE TAKEN ILL, SENT TO FRENCH GARRISON HOSPITAL COLOMBE-BECHAR.

  SITUATION CRITICAL HERE. URGENT REPEAT URGENT WE RECEIVE INFORMATION ON POSSIBLE TRAITOR.

  Reading over his shoulder, Pierre murmured, “It appears, my friend, that your speculation was correct. The stakes were much higher than we thought.”

 
“Shame they’re playing with our lives on the table,” Jake replied, and keyed in, WE CARRY WRITTEN CONFIRMATION. WHERE DO WE DELIVER?

  IMPERATIVE YOU PROCEED TO US EMBASSY IN PARIS. ASK FOR WALTERS. HE IS YOUR FRIEND IN NEED. WAIT ONE. There was a long pause, then, OFFICIAL CONTACT IN MALTA QUESTIONABLE, NEW COMMANDANT, UNKNOWN TO BINGHAM. WE WILL MAKE SEARCH FOR ALLIES, BUT MUST MOVE WITH CAUTION. CAN YOU MAKE IT ON YOUR OWN?

  PARIS. YOU DO NOT ASK MUCH, DO YOU. Jake thought a moment, then continued, PATRIQUE SERVAIS AT HOSPITAL ACCOMPANIED BY JASMYN COLTRANE. URGENT YOU RESCUE THEM BEFORE TOO LATE.

  CONSIDER IT DONE. ANYTHING ELSE?

  HOW ABOUT SOME FUNDS?

  TRANSFER POSSIBLE. GIVE NAME AND BANK.

  Jake asked Towers, “What’s your bank here?”

  “Midland. Why?”

  FRANK TOWERS. MIDLAND BANK. MALTA BRANCH.

  WILL DO TODAY. MALTA. HOW ON EARTH?

  MEET ME IN PARIS. I WILL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT.

  ROGER THAT. WILL CONTACT WALTERS MYSELF TODAY. ANY WAY HE CAN GET A MESSAGE BACK TO YOU?

  Jake asked and received the post office’s address and telegraph code. When he had passed on the information, he finished with, THANKS FOR HELPING HAND.

  TOO FEW GOOD MEN AS IT IS. TAKE CARE. WATCH THE OLD NOGGIN. LET ME KNOW IF WE CAN DO MORE. WILL GET BUSY ON THIS END. SEE IF WE CAN RUSTLE UP SOME CAVALRY. TEAVES OUT.

  Frank Towers inspected the page of messages over Jake’s shoulder and said, “I guess you really are who you say you are.”

  Jake turned around. “You didn’t believe us?”

  “Let’s just say I was keeping a healthy dose of skepticism right close at hand,” Towers replied cheerfully. “There’s a lot of tall-talers walking about these days, especially on the routes I’m flying. Anyway, glad I let you boys come along for the ride.”

  “We are too,” Pierre replied. “And we are in your debt. Those are words I am saying quite often these days, but true just the same.”

  “Speaking of which,” Jake said, “you will hopefully be receiving a hefty sum in the next few days.”