“Before the war, I was working with the Americans on a multi-engine passenger plane. We were going to call it the 707. Then the war happened, and with the help of our dear Mussolini, the Germans occupied Italy. The last I heard, they were developing the B-47, and with my designs!” he said, angrily. “I can’t tell you how upset I am.”
“Are they still making the 707?”
“I don’t know. I’m not allowed to talk to the Americans now. We’re building the Adler. The Adler 1.”
“The Adler?”
“It means Eagle. And believe me, it looks like one. In fact, it’s very similar to the B-47. It’s a large, delta-wing bomber, it’s powered by six jet engines, and it’s incredibly fast.” He sniggered. “Actually, it looks more interesting than the B-47.
Kat stopped breathing. “What do you mean by fast?”
Stipa shrugged. “I don’t know… 600.”
Kat gasped, “600 kilometers an hour?”
Stipa laughed. “No. 600 miles per hour.”
“Holy crap! A bomber that does 600 miles an hour? That’s insane.”
“What it is, is magnificent.” Stipa said, proudly. “You should see it flying.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “And the Americans stole it from me. They’ll probably build the 707 without me. The Germans are building the Adler… and Dornier will get credit for it. It’s outrageous.”
Kat felt a surge of excitement well in her chest. If the plane already flew, it was too late to kidnap Stipa. The horse had already bolted, but if they could somehow round it up and catch it… “And you’re testing this plane at Linate?”
Stipa roared with laughter. “At Linate? Linate? For all the world to see? No, we’re testing it in North Africa, in the middle of the Sahara Desert. They have a special airfield there. It’s also used for high-level meetings. I saw Rommel last time I was there.”
“Then… why you here?” Capetti asked.
“They’re doing secret tests, so I’m taking a break.”
Kat Frowned. “What sort of secret tests?”
“How do I know? They’re secret. Some kind of weapon, I think.” When he saw Capetti’s expression, he waved his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s only one plane. What can they do with one plane?”
“One enormous bomb?” Kat ventured.
“What help is one enormous bomb? The English dropped thousands on Cologne.”
“I don’t know, but the Germans wouldn’t be wasting their time on something meaningless. Where is this airfield?”
“I have no idea. When they fly me there, I’m just a passenger. I think it’s in Algeria, but it’s hard to be sure. There are no borders in the desert.”
Kat and Capetti looked at each other. It was hard to believe they were going back to Africa again. It was as if they were both cursed.
“Signor Stipa, can I ask you a rather sensitive question?”
“Ask away.”
She drew a deep breath. Even Stipa in his fury might not want to answer this. “How easy is it to fly the Adler?”
“Fly the Adler?” he said, incredulously. “Do you know how to fly a rocket?”
“Well someone’s flying it.”
“Yes, test pilots, and they’re extremely skilled. Flying a jet is very different to flying a traditional plane. The acceleration alone is enough to… how you say… scare you shitless.”
“Well, we have to do something. There’s not much point kidnapping you?”
Stipa laughed. “No, I suppose not. Anyway, it depends on who wins the war. It’s not ready yet though, we’re still having issues with thrust reliability, and they need me to fix that. I fly back there in two days.”
“Two days?” Capetti said. “How long to fix?”
“Hard to say. A few days, maybe a little longer, I would imagine.”
Kat stood. “Then I suppose we should let you fix it. We’d hate to flameout halfway across the Mediterranean.
CHAPTER 5
“Where are we going?” Dore asked, when Kat took the turn to Piacenza.
“I’m taking the mountain road to Genova. It’s a bitch of a road, but there are less Germans on it.”
“You are joking,” Capetti said. “Piacenza full of Krauts.”
“I know it is, but we’re supposed to be Germans, and Pernass won’t expect us to go there.”
“What it got to do with Pernass? Stipa safe in house.”
“You don’t think he’ll interrogate Stipa? With all the Guards missing, it’s hard to imagine what he’ll do. If Stipa weakens and describes us, Pernass knows me. He’ll be onto it like a shot. And how else do you get out of Italy, except through Genova?”
“I don’t-a like. If we get stopped…”
A convoy of tanks and halftracks trundled by in the opposite direction, along with a Mercedes staff car full of high-ranking officers. Kat couldn’t help wondering if they were on their way to Bergamo to replace the damaged tanks and dead soldiers. Even the Germans were simply replacing what was lost. War is a continuous process of loss and gain.
Moments later they were entering Piacenza, with its bombed-out buildings and old trolley buses. The English had been here. They obviously bombed the place, trying and failing to route out the Germans. She spotted two more staff cars, and the cafes and coffee bars full of German soldiers, the sound of their voices echoing across the piazza. Kat wondered how the Italians coped. She’d been here as a child. It was a beautiful town.
Working her way passed all the parked halftracks and cars, she took the road for Locanda La Pernice. She’d often skied there and knew the road well, with its hairpin bends and craggy, in-your-face overhangs. She couldn’t imagine the Germans setting up road blocks here. Who would take this road out of choice… except the Italian Resistance? The realization hit her like a brick. This is exactly where the Resistance would hide. Why hadn’t Gramigna warned her?
She drove on. Maybe it won’t be so bad, she told herself. It’s the middle of the night. Anyway, who would stop a staff car at 0300? The more she thought about it, the more it worried her.
“Jock!” she called out. “You still got that machine gun of yours? Or did you stow it in the boot?”
“I’m practically sitting on it. I put the confiscated guns in the boot. Why? I thought this road was safe.”
“Well, it is… normally. But we blew up the camp at Bergamo.”
“Bergamo’s miles away.”
“Yes, I know. But the Resistance hide in these mountains.”
“Oh god,” Stewart groaned. “Now she tells us.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine. I just thought I’d mention it. You know, in case we get stopped.”
“We take different road?” Capetti suggested.
“A different road?” Kat exclaimed. “I thought you were Italian. Don’t you know your own country?”
“I civilized Italian,” he said, stiffly. “I come from Rome.”
“Anyway,” Kat said, “no, we can’t take another road. There isn’t one. This is it, all the way to Genova.”
“Mama mia,” Capetti murmured. “Never trust woman.”
They drove through a rocky gorge, the road winding beneath giant overhanging rocks, a stone bridge crossing a fast-flowing river, mountains looming above them. She craned her neck to see. High above them, a small village clung to the side of the mountain as if glued to the rocks. She knew the village. The cobbled streets, an old village church… and sold the best pizza she’d ever eaten. Driving the car into a narrow turning and hoping the cumbersome Humber would make it, she navigated the steep, hairpin bends.
“What are you doing?” Capetti demanded. “This not road to Genova.”
“We’re taking a break,.” She replied, negotiating one of the many tortuous bends. “The people in that village will know where the road blocks are. At least we’ll be prepared.”
“We also need to eat.” Atkins reminded him.
Driving the car round the impossible bends, Kat urged the car on. Steep cliffs hemmed in on either side, deep gutters and concrete pilings. That the road had been built at all was a miracle, and when they finally arrived in the village, it felt like a fairy tale. Cobblestones glistened beneath ancient streetlights, darkened shops boasted colorful awnings, the church clock tower looming at the far end of the street.
“Hey! A pizzeria!” Stewart cried. “Shame it’s 0400.”
“We have food in the boot.” Kat reminded him.
Parking the car outside a tiny butcher’s shop, she handed out the cheese and tomato paninis that Gramigna’s cook made, and for a while, they stood around eating them. Kat felt nervous, there was a strange feel about the village, something wasn’t quite right. A dog barked, and it didn’t sound like a village dog. Its bark too deep, too aggressive. She heard men’s voices, and that wasn’t normal at 0400.
“Watch your backs, guys. I think we’ve got company.”
At the far end of the street, a large dog came into view, held in check by a man in a Waffen-SS uniform, behind him, three men with machine guns at the ready.
“Christ!” Atkins hissed. “What are the Germans doing all the way up here?”
Grabbing Dore’s arm, she pulled him into the shadows of a narrow alley, then Signaled Capetti, drawing her Lugers and pointing to her SS cap. The 16th Tank Command at Bergamo had been attacked by uniformed men in a legitimate staff car. If word got out, they might be in trouble. Dore must have had similar thoughts because he pressed himself against the wall and released the safety on his MP40.
Straining at its leash, the dog snarled and barked. The Lieutenant stopped. The soldiers stopped. There was a moment of silence. Then the Lieutenant’s arm shot out.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Capetti growled, taking another bite of his Panini. Stewart and Atkins failed to react at all. They just stared at the dog, their eyes darting to the men with guns. “Kontroliere deinen hund!” Capetti said, in an annoyed tone.
It was unknown what caused the Lieutenant to be suspicious, maybe the dog, or Capetti’s accent, or that Stewart and Atkins looked strangely tense, but he suddenly called out, “Auf der hut!”
The soldiers released the safety’s on their MP40s.
“What in god’s name are you doing?” Capetti said, in a surprised tone.
The Lieutenant drew his pistol. “Being very careful! Sir! The Italian Resistance wear German uniforms.”
Capetti smiled. “Which is what you’re wearing.”
The Lieutenant hesitated. “Not us, sir! You!”
“Hmph!” Capetti grunted. “How do we know that? Your dog looks very Italian. Noisy little bastard.”
The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “You can prove you’re German? You sound Italian.”
“Prove you’re German. You look Swedish.” He smiled again. “And you may as well lower your guns. Because you’re outnumbered.”
The Lieutenant looked behind him, hesitated when he saw Kat and Dore standing behind him, then to everyone’s surprise, he released the dog.
The eruption of gunfire was deafening in the silent village. Kat shot the Lieutenant twice in the face, Dore emptied his MP40 into the three soldiers, and Capetti drew his gun on the dog… which whined, stared at the Major for long seconds, then let out a shriek and ran, no doubt to become someone’s eternally barking pet after the war.
A window above one of the shops opened. Then another, and another. Someone shouted, “You Germans shoot each other now?”
“Io no Tedesco!” Capetti called. “Italiano! Quando apre la pizzeria?”
A cackle of laughter and doors began to open, people appearing in the street. Within minutes, the street filled with old people, peering at Kat, and laughing when Dore said, “I’m Scottish.” They laughed even louder when Stewart said, “Nuova Zelanda.” In no time at all, bottles of wine were produced, glasses clinking, the bodies being dragged away, no doubt to be lowered into the valley below.
According to the villagers, there was no sign of roadblocks on the road to Genova. The slightest sign of German check points would have been targets for the Resistance. So when everything calmed, the team bade their farewells and drove away… loaded down with cheese, bread and bottles of wine.
“Well that was an experience,” Kat said, when they were on the road to Genova again.
Capetti laughed. “It like this all over Italy. No one like Germans. When they leave, Mussolini in big trouble.”
The road narrowed, the bends becoming sharper. Small craters to negotiate, rock falls, tunnels badly in need of maintenance. They passed through deep gorges with fast-flowing rivers, past abandoned cottages and derelict sub-stations. Kat couldn’t help wondering where everyone had gone.
She sensed everyone’s restlessness. Even Capetti looked uncomfortable. She knew the cause. No one knew what to expect. They were no longer kidnapping Stipa, and they were no longer going back to England. No one had a real break since their last trip to Africa, and now they were going back there again.
“So what’s the name of this ship?” Stewart asked, when houses on the outskirts of Genova began to appear. “I assume it’s still waiting for us.”
“The Angelina Lauro.” Kat informed him. “But that’s the other problem, we can’t use it. We didn’t kidnap Stipa and we’re not going to England.”
“Oh yeah. Of course we’re not. So how are we getting to Africa?”
She glanced back at him. He was pouring wine into an old soup can. “For god’s sake, Harry! We’re not on holiday. Put it away. At least wait until we’ve found a boat.”
“Just wanted to taste it.” He said, corking the bottle. “So how are we getting to Africa?”
“Genova’s full of fishing boats. We will borrow one. Preferably with the Captain on board.”
“You’re kidding. It must be two thousand kilometers to Libya.”
“We’ll be stopping in Palermo. Anyway, some of those fishing boats go out for days. Of course, you might have to help out if the weather gets rough.”
“You’re bloody joking. I’m a pilot, not a fisherman. People have been known to drown in water.”
“Don’t be pusillanimous. Tell him not to be pusillanimous, Jock.”
“What’s pusillanimous?”
“A pussy.”
“Don’t be a pussy.” Dore repeated, then added, “…sir…”
“Guys, it’s a fishing boat, and it’s got sleeping quarters. It’s not a rowing boat.”
“Where we going?” Capetti asked. “Genova not small.”
“Can I assume you’ve actually been to Genova?” Kat quipped.
“Si. I went to college there.”
She exclaimed, “Thank god for that. Where should we go?”
Capetti shrugged. “Bar Latino in San Giorgio. The fishing crews drink there… if any wine left in Genova.”
Kat smiled. “We’ve got wine, we might make friends.”
“We’re Krauts, Kat. Who’s going to talk to us?”
San Giorgio was a hive of activity, provisions being loaded, old men hauling on nets, people shouting in the soft gray of early dawn. Unsurprisingly, they found Bar Latino half empty, only an ancient fisherman and a few motley crewmembers propping up the bar.<
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“Siamo chiusi!” the bartender yelled, eyeing their uniforms.
A pall of cigarette smoke lingered in the air and it was obvious that the bar wasn’t closed. Taking his time, Capetti wandered over to the bar and spoke to him in Italian. The bartender’s eyes widened and the fishermen, most sipping espressos, let out a hoot when they heard what Capetti said.
“Sei Italiano?” the bartender gasped. “Mama mia! I tuoi vestiti soni incredibile!”
Within moments, a small party was in progress, people slapping Capetti on the back when home-bottled wine from the mountains suddenly appeared.
The elderly fisherman turned out to be a Captain, and he joined in when he realized what was going on. Capetti immediately engaged him in conversation, talking to him at machine gun speed. After a time, Capetti introduced him to Kat.
“This is Giovanni. He owns the Alexia.”
“Il tuo nome é Wolfman?” the old man said, when Capetti told him her name.
“No, no, no. Wolf-rrram,” she laughed. “Ariete. Like a man sheep.” She slammed his fist into his palm. “Bam! Capire?”
“Ahh! With the head.”
“Glad we got that sorted out,” Kat said. “How big is this boat?”
“Is old trawler.” Capetti said. “Has sleeping for five. Is perfect. We need pay him.”
“I can imagine. How much does he want?”
“How much Giovanni?”
“Dieci giorni?” Giovanni scratched his leathery chin and gave a lazy shrug. “Duecento dollari.”
“Two hundred dollars?” Kat exclaimed. “Cheap at half the price.”
Capetti frowned. “Cheap at half price? What that mean?”
“It’s an old saying. Hai un accordo,” she said.
Capetti shook his head. “British have dumb sayings.”
Pulling $250 from her wallet. “You’ve got a deal.” Giving it to the old man, she gripped his hand. “We’ll need food as well. Anche cibo.”
The old man nodded. “Si, si.” He tottered out of the bar, decidedly more fragile than when he went in.
Kat and the Desert Eagle Page 4