dark when they reached Bergen and cold, very cold, a little sleet mixed with the rain as they landed. Neumann had contacted the base half an hour earlier to notify their arrival. There were lights in the control tower and the buildings, a poor blackout. The German occupying forces in Norway knew that the end was near, that there was no possibility of an Allied invasion. It simply wasn’t necessary. An aircraftsman with a torch in each hand guided them to a parking place, then walked away. Bormann could see a Kubelwagen driving toward them. It stopped on the other side of the parked aircraft of which there were several.
Neumann switched off. “So, we made it, Herr Reichsleiter. Rather different from Berlin.”
“You did well,” Bormann said. “You’re a fine pilot.”
“Let me get your bag for you.”
Bormann got down to the ground and Neumann passed him the bag. Bormann said, “Such a pity you recognized me,” and he took the silenced Mauser from his greatcoat pocket and shot him through the head.
The man standing beside the Kubelwagen was a naval officer and wore the white-topped cap affected by U- boat Commanders. He was smoking a cigarette and he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it as Bormann approached.
“General Strasser?”
“That’s right,” Bormann told him.
“Korvettenkapitan Paul Friemel.” Friemel gave him a half-salute. “Commanding U180.”
Bormann tossed his bag into the rear of the Kubelwagen and eased himself into the passenger seat. As the other man got behind the wheel, the Reichsleiter said, “Are you ready for sea?”
“Absolutely, General.”
“Good, then we’ll leave at once.”
“At your orders, General,” Friemel said and drove away.
Bormann took a deep breath, he could smell the sea on the wind. Strange, but instead of feeling tired he was full of energy and he lit a cigarette and leaned back, looking up at the stars and remembering Berlin only as a bad dream.
1992
1
Just before midnight it started to rain as Dillon pulled in the Mercedes at the side of the road, switched on the interior light and checked his map. Klagenfurt was twenty miles behind, which meant that the Yugoslavian border must be very close now. There was a road sign a few yards further on and he took a torch from the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked toward it, whistling softly, a small man, no more than five feet four or five with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore an old black leather flying jacket with a white scarf at his throat and dark blue jeans. The sign showed Fehring to the right and five kilometers further on. He showed no emotion, simply took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter and returned to the car.
It was raining very heavily now, the road badly surfaced, mountains rising to his right, and he switched on the radio and listened to a little night music, occasionally whistling the tune until he came to gates on the left and slowed to read the sign. It badly needed a fresh coat of paint, but the inscription was clear enough. Fehring Aero Club. He turned in through the gates and followed a track, lurching over potholes until he saw the airfield below.
He switched off his lights and paused. It seemed a poor sort of place, a couple of hangars, three huts and a rickety excuse for a control tower, but there was light streaming out from one of the hangars and from the windows of the end hut. He moved into neutral, eased off the brake and let the Mercedes run down the hill silently, coming to a halt on the far side of the runway from the hangars. He sat there thinking about things for a moment, then took a Walther PPK and black leather gloves from the attache case on the seat next to him. He checked the Walther, slipped it into his waistband at the rear, then pulled on the gloves as he started across the runway in the rain.
The hangar was old and smelled of damp as if not used in years, but the airplane that stood there in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna 441 Conquest with twin turboprop engines. A mechanic in overalls had the cowling on the port engine open and stood on a ladder working on it. The cabin door was open, the stairs down and two men loaded boxes inside.
As they emerged, one of them called in German, “We’re finished, Doctor Wegner.”
A bearded man emerged from the small office in one corner of the hangar. He wore a hunting jacket, the fur collar turned up against the cold.
“All right, you can go.” As they walked away he said to the mechanic, “Any problems, Tomic?”
“No big deal, Herr Doctor, just fine-tuning.”
“Which won’t mean a thing unless this damn man Dillon turns up.” As Wegner turned, a young man came in, the woollen cap and reefer coat he wore beaded with rain.
“He’ll be here,” Wegner told him. “I was told he could never resist a challenge, this one.”
“A mercenary,” the young man said. “That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who kills people for money.”
“There are children dying over there,” Wegner said, “and they need what’s on that plane. To achieve that I’d deal with the Devil himself.”
“Which you’ll probably have to.”
“Not kind,” Dillon called in excellent German. “Not kind at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness at the end of the hangar.
The young man put a hand in his pocket and Dillon’s Walther appeared fast. “Plain view, son, plain view.”
Dillon walked forward, swung the young man round and extracted a Mauser from his right-hand pocket. “Would you look at that now? You can’t trust a soul these days.”
Wegner said in English, “Mr. Dillon? Mr. Sean Dillon?”
“So they tell me.” Dillon slipped the Mauser into his hip pocket, took out his silver case one-handed, still holding the Walther, and managed to extract a cigarette. “And who might you be, me old son?” His speech had the hard, distinctive edge to it that was found only in Ulster and not in the Republic of Ireland.
“I am Dr. Hans Wegner of International Drug Relief, and this is Klaus Schmidt from our office in Vienna. He arranged the plane for us.”
“Did he now? That’s something to be said in his favor.” Dillon took the Mauser from his hip pocket and handed it back. “Doing good is all very fine, but playing with guns when you don’t know how is a mug’s game.”
The young man flushed deeply, took the Mauser and put it in his pocket, and Wegner said mildly, “Herr Schmidt has made the run by road twice with medical supplies.”
“Then why not this time?” Dillon asked, slipping the Walther back in his waistband.
“Because that part of Croatia is disputed territory now,” Schmidt said. “There’s heavy fighting between Serbs and Moslems and Croats.”
“I see,” Dillon said. “So I’m to manage by air what you can’t by road?”
“Mr. Dillon, it’s a hundred and twenty miles to Sabac from here and the airstrip is still open. Believe it or not, but the phone system still works quite well over there. I’m given to understand that this plane is capable of more than three hundred miles an hour. That means you could be there in twenty minutes or so.”
Dillon laughed out loud. “Would you listen to the man? It’s plain to see you don’t know the first thing about flying a plane.” He saw that the mechanic high on his ladder was smiling. “Ah, so you speak English, old son.”
“A little.”
“Tomic is a Croatian,” Dr. Wegner said.
Dillon looked up. “What do you think?”
Tomic said, “I was in the airforce for seven years. I know Sabac. It’s an emergency strip, but a sound asphalt runway.”
