Irene shook her head. “Sorry, no. There are over one hundred thousand pages of notes on the microdots. It may be on another page that I, or another analyst, haven’t gotten to yet.”
“Wow, this is really slim, sir,” said Shaw to Hill. “You want us to head to India and try to find a team of Germans without knowing who they are or when they might be arriving and then try to stop them before they make their way into Tibet.”
Hill nodded his head. “That sums it up quite nicely, Captain.”
“It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” said Bruce.
“Please give me some credit, gents; I did put some thought into your dilemma,” said Hill. “I think I may have a workable solution. First off, I have arranged for you to leave England this evening. You will be traveling on board a convoy of men and materials bound for Egypt. Once there, you will be shuttled by the RAF across the Arabian Peninsula and into western India where you will be met by an SOE operative. He will arrange for your transport across India. When you arrive in Gangtok, another operative will be waiting to assist you.”
“Then why send us at all?” said Bruce. “Why not just get your man in Gangtok to arrest the Germans when he finds them?”
“Because he’s not my man, she actually works for the British government and not the SOE, and I’d feel better knowing that my two best agents were there in case things got rough,” said Hill.
Shaw was beginning to learn how fiercely territorial all of the various allied intelligence agencies were. They may have been all on the same side, but that didn’t mean that they implicitly trusted one another.
“I guess we’d better pack if we’re leaving tonight,” said Shaw.
“Leave your uniforms behind. From here on out, you’re a couple of railroad surveyors,” said Hill.
“What’s the weather like in Northern India?” asked Bruce.
Irene said, “In Gangtok it will be in the low seventies during the day by the time you arrive.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” said Bruce with a smile.
“Yeah, but if we don’t catch the Germans there and have to follow them, it could get really chilly high up in the Himalayan mountains,” said Shaw.
“How cold?”
“With the wind, I’ve read that it can sometimes dip below forty degrees Fahrenheit,” said Shaw.
“You’re pulling my leg, Captain.”
“Actually, it has been recorded at minus fifty in the higher elevations,” said Irene.
“Lord, we’d better find these German fellows before they get any ideas about heading up into the mountains,” moaned Bruce.
Hill said, “It will take the convoy twelve days to reach Egypt, so before you leave here today Irene will supply you with all the information that she can find on the earlier German expeditions to Tibet. She also has some spare maps of the region for you. I’ve also asked her to provide you with any other information she deems pertinent to the mission. I’m sure it will all make for good reading during your long voyage.”
Shaw nodded. Turning to Irene, he said, “Please, keeping digging through those files. Anything you find, no matter how insignificant it may seem, may help us once we arrive in India.”
“You can count on me,” said Irene with a smile.
Hill said, “Well, unless you gentlemen have any further questions for me, I think we’re done. Your flight to Southampton will be leaving at precisely 1300 hours from RAF Station Cambridge. Irene will supply you with all of the names of your contacts, new passports and sufficient funds to cover all of your expenses.”
“Well, until we meet again, sir,” said Shaw, offering Hill his hand.
“Until we meet again, Captain,” replied Hill, firmly shaking his hand.
Shaw gently took Irene’s arm and then with Bruce, walked with her out of Hill’s office.
A few seconds later, all alone, Hill let out a deep, weary sigh. He moved back behind his desk and took a seat. He opened the file folder on his desk, pulled out a picture of Carlos Victor Adler and looked down at the man the SS had selected to lead the latest expedition into the Himalayas. The man’s eyes looked hard and dangerous. If anyone could find the reputed resting place of the mythical Vril power, it was this man, thought Hill. He didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty for not sharing with Shaw and Bruce all of the information that he had. If they knew who the Nazi agent was, they would undoubtedly try to stop him before he left India for Tibet and that would not do. Hill’s superiors in London wanted Adler to lead Shaw to the prize, no matter the cost.
Chapter 7
Mountainous Region
Afghan-Indian Border
The night air was heavy and still.
Carlos Adler rubbed his tired eyes for a moment and then sat back in his seat. His ride from Jalalabad was a brand new and very expensive cream-colored Packard convertible. He was beginning to feel fatigued from yet another day of non-stop travel. Adler loosened his tie slightly. He was glad that he had chosen his comfortable gray suit to wear on this leg of the journey. The opulence of the car, compared to the abject poverty of the villagers who stood on the side of the road staring mistrustfully at the men standing around chatting with one another, was not lost on Adler.
He took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs from his mind, glancing down at his watch, and saw that it was nearly nine at night. Apart from a few fires lit outside of the mud-brick homes, the small village was completely dark.
From the front of the vehicle, a man in a dark brown suit walked back and rapped his knuckles on the Adler’s window.
Adler instinctively reached over under his dark gray raincoat resting on his lap and placed his hand over the top of his hidden Luger. With other hand, he rolled down the window. It was Fahran, one of the men sent to help him make his way to the border.
“Sorry, sir,” said Fahran in perfect English, “someone wants to see you at the front of the car.”
“Who wants to see me?” asked Adler.
“Musa Khan,” replied Fahran.
Adler knew the name from the list he had memorized back in Germany. Musa Khan was the man who would safely escort him from Afghanistan all the way across India and then into Tibet.
Adler nodded his head, opened the door and then climbed out of the car. His raincoat draped over his right arm, concealing his pistol. He walked warily to the front of the car. Adler could smell a mélange of spices coming from a blackened iron pot over the top of an open fire. An emaciated-looking woman sat on her haunches fanning the flames; as Adler approached, she pulled up her scarf, and then deliberately turned her head away, so she couldn’t be seen. A dog, its ribs showing through its skin, trotted past Adler with a small piece of grizzled meat hanging from its mouth.
At the front of the car stood three men all impeccably dressed in dark blue suits.
“Mister Adler, I presume,” said a young man with a wide smile on his handsome face. His English was tinged with a slight upper-class English accent.
“You presume correctly,” replied Adler. Looking at the man, Adler saw that he was probably in his mid-twenties. He looked fit, with dark eyes that shone in the light of the nearby fire. The other two men stood behind him, standing still like a pair of marble statues. Adler took them to be hired muscle.
“Good evening, sir, my name is Musa Khan, principal secretary to his Highness, Mohammed Kalakani, the exiled and rightful heir to the Afghan throne, and your most humble servant,” said Khan, offering his hand in greeting.
“My pleasure, sir,” replied Adler politely. Taking Khan’s hand, Adler expected it to be soft, a bureaucrat’s hand; instead, the young man’s grip was hard.
Khan smiled at Adler and then said, “May I please see your passport?”
Adler reached into his jacket and handed Khan his fake Cuban passport.
Khan opened it and then studied the passport in the light from the car’s bright headlights. A couple of seconds later, Khan handed back Adler’s passport.
“A fine forgery,
exquisite workmanship, one of the best I have ever seen,” said Khan.
“I would hope so,” replied Adler. “I don’t want to be caught by the British and shot as a spy due to shoddy work.”
“You can lose the Luger, Mister Adler. It won’t do you any good where you’re going. In fact, having it might get you killed.”
Adler was stunned. He thought that he had hidden his pistol well under his jacket.
“Take this,” said Khan as he handed Adler his own U.S. Army 9mm Colt automatic pistol. “You’re from Cuba, not Germany. You should carry a weapon readily available in Cuba.”
Adler took the pistol and balanced it in his hand for a few seconds. It was an unfamiliar weapon, but it felt good in his hand. He would have no problem learning how to use it properly. Adler smiled, tucked the Colt away in his jacket, and then gave Khan his Luger.
“I don’t have one of these. I’m going to add this to my collection,” said Khan as he admired the craftsmanship on the pistol. “I see you didn’t change your name on your passport. Why not?”
“Part of being able to pull off a deception, I was always told, was to keep it simple. My name is not an uncommon one in Spanish-speaking countries, so I decided not to change it,” explained Adler. “Less for me to memorize.”
Khan shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever works for you, señor. From here on out, I will treat you as a Cuban citizen and my honored guest. Now, I suggest that you get back in the car. My men and I will join you shortly.”
“What about the men who came with me from Jalalabad?”
“Another car will come in the morning to pick them up. Now, please hurry, Señor Adler, we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“What about the Indian border guards?”
“What about them?” said Khan with a chuckle. “The border is just a line drawn on the map by the English. In this part of the world, blood and family ties are more important than some imaginary line on the ground. Don’t worry, señor, you’re in good hands. You have my word on it. No one will stop us.”
Remembering that one of the earlier teams had been caught crossing the border, Adler hesitated for a moment.
Khan saw the look in Adler’s eyes. “Señor Adler, you will have to learn to trust me or this whole venture, or you along with it are doomed.”
Adler, realizing that he had no choice got back into the car and sat down in his seat. The instant they crossed into India, he knew that he was committed. There would be no turning back. He reached under his shirt and felt the silver cross hanging around his neck. A gift from his mother, he had worn it through the long and bloody campaigns across Europe, and it had always brought him luck. With a silent prayer on his lips, Adler steeled himself for the coming challenge, one knew he could not afford to lose.
Chapter 8
RAF Station
Karachi, India
As Shaw climbed down from the Bristol Bombay, a twin-engine transport plane, he felt like he was walking into a red-hot furnace. The temperature outside was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. The dry, hot, and dusty airfield shimmered like a river under the blazing sun.
“Good Lord, it’s hot,” muttered Bruce as he followed Shaw down onto the parched airfield. He raised a hand to block out the sun and saw that there wasn’t a cloud in the brilliant blue sky.
“And you complained about Arabia,” said Shaw, removing his brown, double-breasted jacket. He was surprised to see camels being used to pull an aircraft out from a nearby hangar.
“I know I did,” replied Bruce as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It was the hottest place I had ever been to, until today.” He also took off his jacket, placed his fedora hat on his head and then had to jump aside as a small army of workers, badgered by a man with a huge belly, rushed over to start unloading their plane.
“Company’s coming,” said Shaw, pointing at a jeep racing down a dusty road towards them.
“I hope he’s got a cold beer with him,” muttered Bruce, already sweating profusely under the broiling sun.
A few seconds later, a young British lieutenant with curly blonde hair and sky-blue eyes jumped from the jeep and quickly introduced himself. Asking Shaw and Bruce to get in, the officer told them that their luggage would be transferred to another plane.
Jumping in the back, Shaw and Bruce had to hang on as the lieutenant had a lead foot and was soon racing back the way he came. A trail of dust kicked up by the jeep’s tires hung in the air. The streets of Karachi were packed with people going about their business. The lieutenant drove the jeep at full speed around horse-drawn carriages and animals being herded down the road by young boys. As they sped around a narrow corner, Bruce nearly lost his hat when he turned his head to watch a man with a mangy-looking brown bear try to balance a big red ball on its nose. The driver raced around a double-decker bus packed with people and turned sharply down another palm tree-lined road. Up ahead was a walled fort with the British Union Jack flag, flying high above, fluttering in the breeze.
At the entrance to the garrison, two khaki-turbaned Sikh soldiers came smartly to attention and presented arms as the vehicle and its occupants sped past them.
The speeding jeep came to a sliding halt in front of the fort’s headquarters. A swirling cloud of dust wafted up and over the jeep.
The young lieutenant looked back over his shoulder. On his face was a wide grin. “Hope I didn’t scare you two fellows. It doesn’t do to try and drive the way the locals do; you’d never get anywhere.”
Shaw reached over, placed his right hand firmly on the young officer’s shoulder and instantly clamped down. The man grimaced in pain.
“There’s a difference between driving quickly and driving like a jackass,” said Shaw, his voice leaving no doubt that he was pissed at the young man’s foolish theatrics. Flying halfway around the world to needlessly die in a traffic accident was not on Shaw’s agenda.
Shaw let go of the officer’s shoulder, helped himself out of the back of the jeep, brushed off the sand and dust from his clothes and then eyed the lieutenant. With an angry tone of voice, he said, “Lead on, Lieutenant.”
“Very good, sir,” said the shaken officer.
Shaw could tell that the man was surprised by his brusque behavior. No one had probably ever treated him like that. He hoped that the young man had learned his lesson and wouldn’t play with other people’s lives in the future.
On the second floor of the building, Shaw and Bruce were left in a spacious room while the officer went to fetch his superior. No sooner had they taken a seat at the long table in the middle of the room than Bruce broke out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” asked Shaw.
“The look on that lieutenant’s face was priceless,” replied Bruce. “I thought he was going to piss himself when you grabbed hold of him.”
“He had it coming to him. I don’t care if he writes himself off with his stupidity, but I do take exception to him killing others while he makes a complete fool of himself.”
The door to the room opened. A short man with snow-white hair and a walrus moustache stepped inside. He wore the typical British hot weather uniform of a khaki colored shirt, shorts, highly polished shoes and knee-high socks.
Bruce and Shaw stood when they recognized the man was a British colonel.
“Good day, gentlemen, my name is Colonel Frederick Simcoe, commanding officer of this garrison and your contact on this part of your journey,” said the officer with a wide smile on his face.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Shaw, offering his hand as he introduced himself and Bruce.
“Very good, but from here on out you two need to lose your military bearing,” said Simcoe. “You two chaps are supposed to be civilian businessmen, there’s no need to automatically stand when a senior officer comes into the room, nor should you always refer to an officer as sir. You’re both too young to have served in the last dust up so try to act and look like civilians. I know it will be hard. We spend months beating military protocol in
to you, now I’m asking you both to forget it all.”
“Of course, Colonel,” said Shaw. Simcoe was right. They would have to work harder on their cover story.
“Now gents, please take a seat,” said Simcoe as a young Indian soldier entered the room carrying a silver serving tray with a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade on it. After pouring the drinks, the soldier turned to leave.
“Sipahi, please ensure that we are not bothered for the next ten minutes,” said Simcoe to the soldier, using the Indian term for Private.
With a crisp salute, the private quickly and quietly left the room.
“Drink up, gents,” said Simcoe as he took a glass.
Shaw took a sip and was amazed how good the lemonade tasted. It reminded him of home and his lazy summer days spent at his home in Pennsylvania.
“Quite delicious,” said Bruce, quickly finishing his glass.
“Now, I’m sure you two gentleman are anxious to get to Gangtok so I won’t take any more of your time than is absolutely necessary,” said Simcoe as he dug a notebook from his shirt pocket.
“Yesterday, I received a coded message from headquarters in New Delhi,” continued Simcoe. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot to pass on. Aside from your transport arrangements from here to Gangtok the only piece of information I can give you is a date and the name of your contact.”
“Which date?” said Shaw.
“June eleventh.”
“Is there anything special about that date?” asked Bruce.
“None that I am aware of. I have had my people research the date, but so far nothing,” said Simcoe.
“Irene wouldn’t have mentioned it if she didn’t think it was important,” said Shaw. “Perhaps that’s the day our German officer arrives in Gangtok?”
“Or the day he’s planning to leave,” said Bruce.
“You could both be right,” said Simcoe. “Either way, you’ll hopefully arrive there well before the eleventh. There’s a plane waiting to fly you on to New Delhi. From there, transport has been arranged all the way to the border where you will be met by your contact, who will look after you and help you to ferret out these Nazis saboteurs.”
The Mountain (A James Shaw Mission Book 2) Page 5