Layla nodded. She shook hands with him, her eyes glossy, glancing over her shoulder to where Nolan was squatting, helping to distribute arms and ammunition they’d brought with them from the store. ‘She is a good woman,’ Layla said softly. ‘She loves you. You must take care of her, Caine …’ She hesitated. ‘I know I was wrong to think I could go away with you … but if you ever need …’ She stopped herself, bit her lip: her almondshaped eyes spoke wordlessly. Caine kissed her cheek. ‘I know what you did for me,’ he said, ‘and I’ll never forget it. Thank you.’
‘The thanks is to Allah.’
They roared out of the entrance defile, past the place where the Senussi had blown the line, followed the silver rails as they twisted and turned through the maze of wadis. Caine drove, Nolan sat in the co-driver’s seat scanning the skies for shuftikites while the others crouched in the rear. Rossi checked the salvaged kit: Pickney did what he could to treat their wounds. Copeland squatted with one arm around Angela and his sniper’s rifle crooked in the other: Taff Trubman, his molehead blanched and bloodless, swore every time the wagon bumped, his deft fingers groping to tune in the Jerry wireless set.
As he drove, Nolan told them all she knew about Audley, how she’d parachuted in, how she’d persuaded Layla to guide her to the Citadel, how she’d met Adud and had the idea of using the Jerry halftrack, how Audley had escaped by threatening Layla’s life. ‘Poor girl,’ she said, shaking her head, not looking at Caine. ‘She seemed to think that you’d be taking her away after all this.’
Caine made no comment. He was grateful for the risks Layla had taken on his behalf but he couldn’t help wondering exactly how much she’d told Nolan. He hadn’t exactly done anything to be ashamed of, but he had almost given up hope of seeing Nolan again, which she might be justified in interpreting as a loss of faith. Nolan said nothing about Hekmeth, Beeston or her escape from Eisner, and his mind still simmered with questions. He bit them back, though, knowing she was right: they had to focus on the Olzon-13 . Once it was loaded on Axis aircraft, the fate of Lightfoot was out of their hands: his fight with Wallace already seemed a dream, but he forced himself to remember how close they’d come to killing each other, shuddered at the thought of Monty’s armoured divisions being reduced to the same state.
The van bounced on her balloon tyres, ramped along valley floors of barren gravel and cracked clay, trawled between junklots of boulders, along the foot of wild hills clothed in juniper and pine. The massed grey cloudbanks of morning were still tethered in the sky like zeppelins, coating the hills with cool, dark meres, occasionally allowing sunlight through to flare across the downs in longribbed slats. Once, Nolan sighted a spotter plane up there, surfing through the cloudbreaks, turning white and silver as the sunbeams touched its fuselage: they tensed, but the plane didn’t drop altitude to investigate them: Caine remembered that the wagon sported Axis markings anyway. The vehicle laboured up a steep pass to a vast arena of undulating land between spurs of eroded mountains like the boles of vast stone trees: there were groves of tamarix and wild olive, and interlocking shelves of shattered slate sprang from the ground in ridgeback bluffs.
They saw the windsock on its pole long before they clocked the airfield: Caine stopped the vehicle in a tamarix grove a half-mile away from the Nissen hut where the Olzon-13 had been stored. They piled out of the van: for the first ten minutes they lay motionless in the esparto grass, watching for reaction. Even though the signals van had Afrika Korps insignia, if Audley had already warned the Hun that the Olzon-13 had been spotted, they might be on the lookout for vehicles of any kind. Caine scanned the warehouse carefully, his eyes lingering on the locomotive and the rolling-stock standing nearby. He couldn’t tell for certain if the Olzon-13 cylinders were in the hut, but he spotted no guards. He shifted his lenses, examined the airfield – the sangars were visible: he saw no aircraft on the runway. Unless the gas had been loaded and carried away since Nolan had been here, that had to be a good sign.
Nolan glanced at her watch and found that it was already after midday. They squatted in the trees, drank water, guzzled compo rations looted from the Jerry store straight out of the tins. ‘We need to wait till last light, skipper,’ Copeland told Caine through mouthfuls of tinned bacon. ‘It’d be crazy to try it in daylight. They’ve only got to see us coming and our goose is charbroiled.’
Nolan’s seaborn eyes widened. ‘That’s four hours away, Harry,’ she said. ‘One thing’s for certain, the situation will have changed by then – reinforcements, air support, you name it. I reckon those Krauts at the Citadel might already have broken out …’
‘It’s too risky,’ Cope insisted. ‘We’re trained to do this sort of operation at night …’
Everyone’s eyes turned to Caine: he swallowed hard, stared back unflinchingly. ‘We have to go in now,’ he said. ‘I know it’s going to be dicey, but we don’t have any choice.’ He turned to Trubman. ‘Any luck with comms, Taff?’
He saw the frustration in the Welshman’s pudgy face. ‘I don’t get it, skipper,’ he said. ‘The set’s working fine. I’ve checked the frequencies. The antenna’s OK. So why isn’t the damn’ piece of junk working?’
‘Just keep bashing away at it,’ Caine said. ‘Stay with the wagon till we get back. Angela, Betty, you stay here and cover him. The rest of us will take …’
‘I go with Harry,’ Angela interrupted, pouting. ‘You can’t stop me, Thomas. If it go bad, then we die together, but I don’t leave him again.’
Copeland looked embarassed: his big Adam’s apple worked. He was about to speak when Nolan cut in. ‘I’m not staying behind either, Tom,’ she said, a coy smile flickering around her alluring front teeth. ‘And since I’m the ranking officer here, Lieutenant, you don’t have the authority to make me.’
Caine looked from Angela’s set face to Nolan’s, saw that it would be pointless to argue.
‘We’re gonna need ’em, anyway, skipper,’ Wallace said. ‘There’s only five of us to lay them charges: we’ll need someone on lookout.’
Caine nodded. ‘All right, then, but the ladies will be tail-end Charlies: stay outside the hut while we go in, keep watch. If it goes pearshaped, you bug out like the wind and take the wagon.’
Angela was already shaking her head. ‘Non e possibile,’ she said. ‘I don’t go anywhere without Harry. I fight, I kill Tedesci maybe, and maybe they kill me, but I don’t run while he is alive …’
‘That makes two of us,’ Nolan said.
Caine frowned, started to mouth something that might have been, ‘Women’, but stopped himself. Today women had saved his life.
They tooled up, taking the weapons they’d retrieved from the Jerry store: the men saddled the manpacks of Lewes bombs, the women carried Schmeisser sub-machine-guns and pistols. They moved off fast with Wallace and Caine leading, Copeland bringing up the rear, threading a zigzag path through the treebrakes, hugging the shadows of the slate ridges, using dead ground. In broad daylight like this, the kind of painstaking approach they used on night raids was pointless: the quicker they closed with the target, the less chance they had of being spotted. They moved in fits and starts, lurking in cover, ramping from point to point at a slow run. Thirty yards from the Nissen hut, they lay up in the lee of a pudding-shaped butt, priming themselves for the final effort: Caine and Wallace crawled into a thornthicket to survey the open ground.
Now, Caine could see the Olzon-13 cylinders clearly through the open sides of the Nissen hut: his heart leapt. The gas was still on the ground, and there was no sign of Jerry aircraft coming in. Sandhog wasn’t finished – they were going to bring it off after all. The train that had shifted the cylinders from the Citadel still stood unattended against its buffers: the only slight misgiving Caine felt was the apparent lack of security. El-Gala was still fresh in his mind: after all they’d been through, after being reunited with Nolan, the last thing he wanted was to lead them into an ambush.
He was about to beckon the others out of cover when t
he giant poked him urgently. Caine looked back to see a lone figure working his way towards them, a tall, lean soldier in khaki drills hefting an SAS manpack, carrying a Garand rifle at the ready. He was moving fast, glancing around furtively, jogging from boulder to boulder, from tree to tree, pausing, then dashing forward again. He was coming directly towards them, giving no indication that he knew they were there. Within a minute he was close enough for them to recognize him, to clock the excited, almost exultant look on his face. ‘Audley,’ Caine hissed. ‘What the hell is he doing?’
Wallace opened his mouth, closed it again fast. Audley was only yards away, and his trajectory would take him straight past the thicket, past the end of the butt behind which the rest of their crew was concealed. Caine and Wallace exchanged a silent glance: once Audley came abreast of the butt-end he would spot the others. Caine was acutely aware that this could be a setup: maybe they’d already been spotted and Audley had been sent to flush them out. They had two choices: let him pass and hope he wouldn’t see them, or jump him and risk exposing themselves. Caine thought of Audley’s treachery, thought of the brave men whose lives had been lost due to him, and knew he couldn’t let him pass. He nodded to Wallace. As Audley stalked by the thicket, his boots tromping dust only a yard from where they lay, the big gunner moved with the speed and sureness of a python, slid forward, grabbed the legs in a bearhug, brought Audley crashing into the shade. Caine snatched the rifle out of his hands, slapped a palm across his mouth, stuck his pistol into his ear. ‘One word, old boy,’ he whispered. ‘One move, and you’re gone.’
They dragged him out of the thicket and into the shadow of the butt: the rest of the crew gathered around wide-eyed. The moment he recognized Audley, Rossi drew his dagger. ‘You got Gibbo killed, you fucking cazzo,’ he bawled. It took all Wallace’s strength to hold him back.
Audley had turned deathly pale: his washed-out eyes bulged over Caine’s clamped hand. ‘I’m going to take my hand away,’ Caine told him. ‘You make any attempt to shout, I let Rossi carve your tonsils to hamburger. Got it?’
Audley nodded frantically, making small noises of protest. Caine removed his hand: Audley sucked breath, stared around at the others. His face twitched, his lips trembled, his attempt at an ingratiating smile came off as a deathmask scowl. ‘Caine,’ he stammered. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, old man. I’ve done it, don’t you see? I’ve laid charges on the Olzon-13 cylinders … they’re all set to blow –’
‘Shut up,’ Caine snapped: he jabbed the pistol into Audley’s chest. ‘I ought to finish you right now, you filthy tub of shit. I should have known what you were when you deserted us at el-Gala. You were responsible for the death of three good men there, and now you’ve got the blood of Dumper, Larousse, Gibson and Netanya on your hands. They’re all dead because of you. Your name isn’t Bertram Audley. You aren’t the son of the Marquis of Leigh, because there is no such fucking animal. You never won the MC, you never served in the Guards. You’re a filthy Nazi stoolpigeon, a damn’ traitor, that’s what you are …’
‘No,’ Audley yelled, shaking his head like an injured dog, his jawblades spasming. ‘It’s not true. Never. I’m not a traitor. ’
‘Liar,’ Nolan cut in, shifting closer. ‘I discovered there was a stoolie in the Sandhog crew when I was kidnapped by Eisner’s lot. Stocker, Stirling and I worked out it was you: everything you told Stirling about yourself was a farrago of lies. I don’t know who you are or where you come from, and I don’t need to: you’ve sold this whole operation to the Axis, and you deserve to be shot.’
‘No,’ Audley sobbed. ‘It’s not true. Believe me, it’s not. All right, I might be a liar, and I might be a cheat, but I would never sell out my mates. Never.’
Caine prodded him again with the pistol. ‘We haven’t got time to waste on you,’ he spat. ‘Tell us who you are, quick, or I’ll let Rossi have you.’
Audley stared into Caine’s redspatted sclera, his jaws working silently, face pasty, eyes the size of pumpkins. ‘All right,’ he shivered. ‘All right, I’ll tell you …’ He flashed a petrified sideglance at Rossi. ‘But you promise not to let this nutter anywhere near me.’
Caine noted with a shiver that Audley’s voice had changed: the officer-class accent had suddenly vanished. He grasped the man’s neck, shook him like a doll. ‘Traitors don’t make conditions,’ he spat. ‘Come on, out with it.’
‘All right,’ Audley choked. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It started when I was involved in a motorcycle accident in Cairo, see. I’d …’
‘What’s this bullshit?’ Wallace boomed. ‘We don’t wanna know the story of yer life. Who the hell are you?’
Audley swallowed hard. ‘My name is Reggie Higginbotham,’ he whispered. ‘I’m a private in the Pioneer Corps, Latrine Detachment …’
Despite himself, Caine almost burst out laughing. He wondered if he were still under the effects of Olzon-13: the situation was growing odder by the second.
‘No, it’s true,’ Audley stammered. ‘One day I borrowed a Guards officer’s uniform: it was just a lark to impress the bints, really: nothing more. But then I crashed the motorbike and was out cold, and thinking I was an officer, they took me to a hospital for commissioned ranks only. I liked the way they treated me: it beat building shithouses, anyway. I mean, everyone treated me like an officer, and I thought, why not? Why shouldn’t I be one? After all, the only difference was a bit of cloth on a uniform. I mean, it was only their good luck that they were born with a silver spoon, and my bad luck that I wasn’t. Why not even it out a bit? So I decided to become Lieutenant the Honourable Bertram Audley MC, Coldstream Guards, heir of the Marquis of Leigh – got the name Audley from an old detective novel I read in hospital, you know, Lady Audley’s Secret? Making myself the heir of a marquis was a crafty move, because the British love an aristocrat. Terrific snobs, the British. Look at Stirling: you reckon he would’ve got the SAS off the ground if he hadn’t been one of the aristocracy? If anyone else – even Paddy Mayne – had come up with the idea, they’d have told ’em to stuff it. So, Private Higginbotham was quietly reported AWOL, and Lieutenant Audley was born. I was amazed how easy it was: put on a toff accent, act a bit uppity, drop a few names – Lord this and the Earl of that – and even the generals are grovelling at your feet. People want to think they’re friends with the son of a marquis, you see: they write home to the folks … my pal, the Hon. Bertie Audley, son of the Marquis … I reckon that’s why nobody ever checked up on me: they were desperate to believe it. Of course, the fact that I’m such a handsome chap might have helped: folks always imagine toffs are handsome. As my old mum used to say, if you’re good-lookin’, people will swallow anything you tell ’em: it’s not what you are that matters in life, it’s what you appear to be …’
His voice trailed off: Caine, Nolan and the others were gawking at him in disbelief. ‘You lying turd,’ Wallace rumbled. ‘You expect us to swallow that …’
‘I’ll do him now,’ Rossi snarled, leaning over, his blade glittering.
‘I’m not a spy, I swear,’ Audley squealed. ‘I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve done my best, honest I have. I’m not a stoolie. I’m Private Reggie Higginbotham of the Pioneer Corps. All right, yes, I’m an impostor, but that doesn’t make me a traitor. I’m a patriot is what I am. When I met Miss Nolan this morning I knew I was up the creek, but I’d never have hurt that Senussi girl – I was only bluffing. I thought I could make it up, see. I thought if I really stuck my neck out, proved myself, saved the operation singlehanded, you know, you might be able to overlook what I’d done …’
He grabbed Caine’s wrist, his eyes searching the lieutenant’s beseechingly. ‘And I did it, Tom, believe me … I know it sounds impossible, but I did it …’
The screams and the gunshots came at the same instant: Caine heard rounds yammer, heard air shatterglass, whiffed cordite, heard slugs flump flesh. The whole team deadlogged, hit dirt: somehow Caine knew it was Pickney who’d been shot. He rolled away from
Audley, brought up his pistol, found himself staring down the muzzle of a sub-machine-gun hefted by a Kraut in full desert rig. The whole area was full of them: they were in platoon strength, and they had the number 999 stencilled on their collars. They looked hard and competent, iceberg faces beneath kaiser helmets. In their midst stood Heinrich Rohde, still in Abwehr uniform, and another officer: Caine couldn’t place him but was certain he’d seen him before.
‘Drop your weapons, gentlemen – ladies,’ the officer said smugly, in faultless English. ‘Drop the manpacks, too.’ Caine placed his Browning and his Tommy-gun at his feet, took off his manpack, laid it down. ‘I want all of your weapons,’ the officer snapped. ‘Bayonets, grenades, little knives, gewgaws – the lot.’
Caine set down his two grenades, then stood up, eyeballed the area. He saw Maurice Pickney’s body slumped head down in a stand of esparto grass, his legs twisted at obscene angles, smothered in blood.
The rest of the SAS group was on its feet now, surrendering weapons and kit: Jerries hurried forward to pick them up. Caine glanced at Audley, who was still ghostfaced. He’d expected the impostor to dust himself off and stride, preening, over to the Jerries, but he stood his ground, looking as apprehensive as the rest. It must be an act, Caine thought: Audley had been sent to them as a decoy, just as he’d first suspected. Like a fool, he’d fallen for it. If the Krauts were to shoot him right now, he deserved it a dozen times over: he’d been so intent on Audley that he hadn’t even heard them coming. Not only was Pickney dead but Sandhog was scotched: Nolan had given him a second chance, and he’d muffed it. His fury with the traitor had drawn him right into their trap, just as they must have guessed it would. Rohde had used his weakness against him brilliantly: and this time it wasn’t only his own life and the lives of his team that were at stake but those of Angela and Betty too. He dreaded to think what the future might hold for them.
Death or Glory II: The Flaming Sword: The Flaming Sword Page 33