“I can’t talk about your mission, it’s extremely secret, but the SOE would like to thank you. You’ve done a great service for your country.”
“Well… thank you, sir. We all did our bit.”
He smiled, which was not common for Fleming. He rarely smiled. “So I gather. No wonder they call you Kat’s Rats.”
Fleming began to leave, turned to Kat and said, “By the way, Capetti said your part on the mission was excellent. Absolutely first rate.”
Kat gave a little smile.
“He said to tell you he forgives you about Arco Philaeni.”
She rolled her eyes and grimaced, “Tell the Wop… Thanks…”
Then he left, a faint hint of cigarette smoke wafting through the door. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she peered down at her leg. It was in a cast and covered in writing. While she was unconscious, the team had written on it. The first signature was Jock’s. The message read,
Fleming won’t tell you this,
but sod him.
See you in Cairo.
End.
Kat’s COMMANDOS Book 4: KAT and die WOLFSSCHANZE
Shepheard’s was the oldest luxury hotel in Cairo and Kat wouldn’t even have considered staying there. She normally stayed at Azar’s, which was far less palatial. But Kelly’s father owned shares in Shepheard’s, so he never stayed anywhere else. Anyway, hadn’t they just saved London from annihilation? Surely, the SOE could pick up the tab. So they went overboard and invited the whole team. Dore and Atkins were delighted, all those swanky officers and a restaurant that put the Ritz in the shade, dances that went on until two in the morning. It was difficult to believe that less than an hour away, a war was raging, and of course, reflected in the restaurant prices.
Kat took Kelly on a tour of Cheops, the most extraordinary pyramid ever built. After his fascination with the ancient cave paintings in Algeria, she thought he’d enjoy crawling along dusty passageways constructed thousands of years ago. Kelly was intrigued, but what fascinated him was the Descending Corridor. Cut into solid bedrock, and the length of three football pitches, its ceiling and walls deviated by no more than a quarter of an inch over its entire length.
“It’s not possible,” he said, squinting down the length of the walls. “How could they cut stone with such incredible precision, thousands of years ago? They can’t even do it today.”
“According to Flinders Petrie, he thought it must have been done with special chisels. Even he was mystified, so you’re in good company.”
“Who’s Flinders Petrie?”
“A famous archaeologist,” she said, with an air of detachment. “He died a couple of years ago.”
“Wow. I’m impressed, Wolfy. I thought you only knew about explosives.”
“You’re not the only one who knows stuff. And stop calling me Wolfy. Only Jock is allowed to call me that.”
Feeling admonished he asked, “and why just Jock?”
“Because he has saved my life a couple of dozen times. He’s earned the right to call me anything he cares to.”
They spent another hour exploring Cheops. Afterwards they scrambled up its high stone blocks and gazed out over the desert. A warm wind blowing, bringing with it a mixture of hot sand and that indefinable herbal smell all deserts seemed to have, and for a while, they sat in silence.
After a time, he glanced at her. “So why are we really here, Kat? I mean, why are we in Cairo? The pyramids are wonderful and I’m glad you brought me here, except you never do things without a reason.”
Thinking for a moment, she said, “Have you heard of the SAS?”
“I’ve heard of them, although I can’t imagine what they do. I think it stands for Special Air Service.”
“They’re a covert hit-and-run team that attack German airfields, blowing up their planes and then hiding out in the desert.” Kat informed him.
“How do they manage that?”
“They parachute in behind enemy lines, then use the Long Range Desert Group to ferry them back and forth. At least, they used to. They’ve got American Jeeps now.”
“Really?” he said. “Harry used to be with the Long Range Desert Group. Still, that doesn’t explain why we are here in Egypt.”
“It was actually Fleming’s idea. Apparently the war in North Africa is finally turning. The SAS are blowing up so many planes, Rommel’s losing his air support.”
“Oh no,” he groaned, wiping the sweat from his neck, “please don’t tell me we’re joining the SAS.”
She winced. “Not… joining them, exactly. Joining forces with them.”
“Oh my god,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I don’t believe this. Kat, I’m a pilot. You know I hate the desert. And I’m hopeless at blowing things up. That’s kind of your bailiwick.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” she said, excitedly. “You wouldn’t be blowing them up, you’d be stealing them.
“You just told me, the SAS are already turning it. Why would they need our help?”
“They are, just not quickly enough. Anyway, what else are we going to do? We can’t laze around in the hotel for weeks.”
“Wanna bet?” he snorted.
“Sam, the SOE won’t let us. They might even send you back to Benghazi. Which reminds me, what time is it?”
“Why? Do we have to be somewhere?”
She squinted at him, trying to judge his reaction. “We’re meeting the head of the SAS at 1500.”
It was easy to recognize David Stirling. He was the tallest person in the room at a lanky six foot six inches tall. Already a Major in his twenties, he was the highest-ranking officer in the bar. Sitting alone and sipping what looked like scotch and ice, he seemed lost in thought. Commander Fleming set up this meeting, and he’d warned Kat to tread carefully, the very existence of the SAS was highly confidential.
She wondered whether it was wise to bring Sam. She saw no reason to exclude a member of the team, but Stirling might not see it that way, especially if his answer was no. Glancing at Sam, she made her way over to the bar.
“Major Stirling?”
The Major turned to her, glanced at Kelly and smiled. A cautious, polite smile. “Miss. Wolfram?”
“Yes, sir. And Flight Lieutenant Kelly. Is it safe to talk here?”
He looked around. The bar was almost deserted. “For the moment. Where’s your Commanding Officer?”
She gave him one of her shy smiles. “We don’t really have a Commanding Officer. Not in a practical sense.”
“No Commanding Officer?” Stirling exclaimed. “Who makes all the decisions?”
Kat’s eyes widened as she considered the question. “Whoever has the best idea I suppose. I’m actually a civilian, so I take on whatever rank is suitable at the time. I was a Waffen-SS driver when we were in Italy, and in Libya, an English Flight Lieutenant.”
Stirling gave her a puzzled smile, then glanced at Kelly. “So are you really a Flight Lieutenant, or is it just a disguise?”
“No, I really am a pilot. I fly Spitfires.” He shrugged. “And jet bombers… when I’m forced to.”
The Major stared at him. “Yes, I heard about that.”
Looking around again, Stirling got up. It was almost lunchtime and people were coming into the bar, so he led them over to a table in the far corner of the room. They’d barely sat down when Dore and Capetti strolled into the bar, gazed around the room and weaved their way over to join them. Judging from their rosy cheeks and merry expressions, they’d both been drinking.
“Och, if it’s not the bonny wee Lass from goodness knows where,” Dor
e cried, patting Kat on the back and winking at Kelly. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Jock, have you been drinking?”
“What a silly question. Of course I’ve been drinking. We’re on leave.”
Stirling glowered at him. “Have you also forgotten how to salute, Sergeant Major?”
Dore gave an inebriated American salute. “Well, that depends on who you really are, sonny. Are they making children into Majors now, or has Fleming finally overstepped the mark?”
“I beg your pardon,” Stirling snapped.
“Jock!” Kat said sharply. “This really is a British Major.”
“And I am General Alessandro,” Capetti said, aloofly. “Please don’t salute me. I am in disguise.”
Stirling rolled his eyes. “As what? An Italian waiter?”
“Watch it, sonny. I’m not on duty.”
“Sandro!” Kat barked. “Go away right now and get sober. We’re having an important meeting.”
“Scusa me,” Capetti said, indignantly. “I not care if you giving speech, I’m Commanding Officer.”
“I know you are, Sandro, but you’re also bladdered. Go and sober up.”
Wrapping an arm round Capetti’s shoulder, Dore turned him around. “Come on, General, we’re not wanted.”
Kat watched them as they staggered out of the bar. “I’m sorry, Major. They’ve been through a very harrowing time. A few days ago they were disguised as SS officers destroying a secret German airbase in Algeria. Nothing’s normal to them. They probably thought you were just another spy.”
Stirling shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m used to it. The SAS are pretty anarchistic. How often are they drunk?”
“Very rarely. In the two years I’ve been with Jock, we’ve been to hell and back.”
“Did you tell them you were meeting the SAS?”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d spoken to you.”
“Well, they’re not going to thank you for putting them in the thick of it again. The SAS aren’t like the regular army. They’re more like a roughhouse militia. Lieutenant Jock Lewes even makes his own bombs.”
She grinned at him. “As you can see, we’re not exactly regular army ourselves, and we’re pretty good at blowing things up.”
He studied her for a moment. “Yes, there are some pretty scary stories about you people. Normally, I wouldn’t believe such balderdash, except Commander Fleming of British Naval Intelligence, assured me that every word is true. I gather you’ve been on some difficult missions.”
“You could say that. In fact, some of them were extremely tricky.”
“So I gather.”
The bar was filling up, people coming in from afternoon walks, officers in their desert uniforms, women in summer dresses, some glancing at Stirling.
“The thing is, Major, we don’t want to join the SAS. We have our own way of working. We want to combine forces. Your men do hit-and-run missions. We want to do hit-and-fly missions, which is very different. Obviously we’d want to hide out with your people, they know the desert better than anyone. However, we won’t just be blowing up planes, we’ll be stealing them as well.”
Stirling laughed. “You’re not serious.”
“Major, it’s perfect. As well as destroying planes on the ground, we’ll be machine-gunning them from the air. If we can find places to hide the planes, we’ll have enough fuel to do three or four raids.”
Stirling blinked. “You have fighter pilots in your team?”
“Two. Sam here, and the well lubricated Major Capetti. They haven’t flown Messerschmitts before, but until a few weeks ago, they hadn’t flown a 500 mile an hour jet bomber, either.”
Stirling rubbed his forehead and grimaced, finding it difficult to take everything in. “Fair enough, but where do you propose hiding these planes? They’re not exactly invisible, and if the Germans see them, you could endanger everyone.”
“We’ll find caves. Tunisian shepherds hide entire flocks in caves. Or we can camouflage them. If we use sheets of canvas, we can cover them with sand. You’d never see them from the air.”
At that moment, a waiter made his way towards their table. “Sorry to disturb you, Major, there’s a phone call for you.”
“Would you mind taking a message? I’ll call them back.”
“It’s a call from London, sir.”
“I don’t care if it’s Bonny Prince Charlie. Tell them I’ll call back.”
The waiter bowed his head and scurried away.
Turning back to Kat, Stirling studied her for a moment. “And you? What about you? You’re an unusually good-looking young woman. Living in the desert can be pretty tough.”
She’d been expecting sex to raise its ugly head. “Major, if Commander Fleming has told you about me, surely he mentioned the fact that I have been terrorizing Rommel, the Waffen-SS and the Gestapo and working closely with the Long Range Desert Group in the Sahara Desert for the past two years. Hell, one of our team was a part of the LRDG but decided to join us because we provided more adventure. Besides, if you’re worried about people like Paddy Mayne, you should try working with Jock.”
Stirling clearly didn’t agree. “Well, I won’t start a debate about it, but I’m worried about the forces of nature… if you know what I mean. Some of the men haven’t seen a woman in months.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Major. I’ve been surrounded by men for the last two years. No one, but no one takes advantage of me, and if they try… they never try a second time.”
Stirling sipped at his scotch. “That’s exactly what worries me. There’s a certain camaraderie in the SAS. Forgive me for saying it, but putting an attractive woman in their midst could really screw them up.”
She was silent for a moment. “That’s one of the reasons we don’t want to join the SAS. We want to work as a separate unit.”
Knocking back the rest of his whisky, Stirling stood up. “Okay… Well, let me think about it.”
End of chapter 1.
Kat and the Desert Eagle Page 19