Part 9 (1/2)

Over the Roof.

I.

C t's going to be a bit of a bind, sitting here twiddling our thumbs while wretched Ross is flown to the far side of the world,' remarked Ginger presently.

'We should have found it more of a bind had it not been for our friend Smith,' returned Biggles, lighting a cigarette and putting the dead match in his pocket. 'A queer type,' he went on. 'I've met several of them. But then, no normal fellow would take on such a job, spending his life in a hostile country, never knowing when an axe is going to drop on his neck.

Beheading, by the way, is a common method of liquidating spies in this part of the world.'

'Why did you have to remind me of that?' complained Ginger.

Biggles smiled.

After a little while Smith returned with a basket of cold food. 'This is the best I can do,'

he said as he set the basket on the box. Are you short of money?'

inquired Biggles.

'Of course not. But if I started buying more than I could eat myself people might wonder who it was for. And here, when people wonder, they talk. They talk out of fear, hoping that by getting someone else into trouble they will avoid it themselves. You have no idea of the sort of life one lives here. The place is rotten with government snoopers and spies.

No man dare trust another.'

'What on earth made you choose such a miserable job?' asked Ginger curiously.

Smith shrugged his crooked shoulder. 'With me it isn't so much a job as an occupation,'

he explained. 'After all, how could I serve the country? Look at me. As a lad I was crazy to join the army, but a fall in the hunting-field buckled my spine and that was that. My people put me in the hands of a Czech specialist who thought he could cure me. That's how I came to be here in the first place. The cure didn't work, but I got to know the country, the people and the language, so I stayed on. Of course, it was all very different here then. When the war came along the Intelligence people at home were glad to have someone with my qualifications. That's all. I've been here ever since.'

'Do you never go home?' asked Ginger.

'I was just going home when Russia grabbed the country. I was asked to stay and here I am. It isn't as dull as you may suppose. A lot of quite remarkable people pa.s.s through my hands, and from them I gather interesting news.'

'But surely you are in touch with home?' prompted Biggles.

'Of course, otherwise what use would I be? I have radio. But not here. It would be dangerous to use it regularly, but it is available should an emergency arise. Why did you ask the question? Have you a message to transmit?'

'It's a matter of getting home,' answered Biggles. 'In view of what has happened it would be futile to try to get out of the country by any form of public transport. If I could make contact with home I could arrange for an aircraft to come out and pick me up. That's all laid on.'

'Are you ready to return home?'

'Yes. There's nothing more we can do here. Fresh plans will have to be made.'

'I gather you haven't actually got an appointment with an aircraft?'

No. It wasn't practicable to make one, because when we started we had no idea of where we should end up. Aside from that, we had no knowledge of suitable landing-grounds behind the Iron Curtain.'

'I may be able to help you there.'

Biggles looked interested. 'You mean, you know of such a place?'

'Yes. It is one I have used before. You are not the first people for whom I have had to arrange transport home. By air is the best way, and the quickest.'

'Where is this place, this landing-ground?'

'It's a field, on a farm, about twelve miles from here.'

'Would you send a message home for us, giving the pinpoint of the field, a date and a time? Given that information, my own fellows could come out and pick us up.'

'Of course I'll send the message. Let me have it and I'll send it through tonight. There's no need for me to give the location of the field. My contact in London knows it. Just tell me the date and the time.' Smith got up from the box on which he had been seated. 'I must go back to the shop now.'

'What time would you send the message?' asked Biggles.

'About six. The air is stiff with radio at that hour, so my signal a”

which will be in code, of course a” may pa.s.s unnoticed by enemy listeners.'

'Six! That means we could get a machine out tonight!'

'Certainly, if there's no hold-up at the other end. Give me your code cipher and the signal will be delivered to your chief immediately it is received. See you later.' Smith went back downstairs.

Biggles turned to Ginger. 'The sooner our people know what's happened, the better.'

'How about Ross? He'll be feeling pretty sick by this time.'

'I haven't forgotten him. Obviously, we shall have to get him out, but it may take a little longer than we expected. I don't see how we can get to him, though, direct from here.'

'I imagine you'll ask Algy and Bertie to fetch us out?'

'Of course. They're standing by. If Smith sends the message at six they should have it by seven. An hour should be long enough for them to get weaving. Another four hours brings us to midnight. Allow a margin of an hour and the machine should be able to get here by one in the morning.

The only thing that might upset the schedule is the weather, but there's nothing we can do about that. We'll fix things with Smith next time he comes up.'

They did not see their host until a little after five, when he reappeared with tea and cakes. Biggles had his signal written out ready. Smith looked at it, and said he would see about getting it put into code forthwith.

The thing that worries me most is the weather,' Biggles told him. 'It was pretty putrid this morning. What's it like now? My pilot must have reasonable visibility for a job of this sort.'

'It's still raining a little, but the clouds are breaking, and the immediate forecast is fair generally.'

'Good,' said Biggles, pouring out a cup of tea.

'I'll leave you now, to get things fixed up,' said Smith. The plan, as I shall try to organise it, will be this. First, I'll get the signal off.

When receipt is acknowledged from the other end I'll see about the rest, which really means no more than getting you to the landing ground. I can't go with you myself for several reasons, and obviously it wouldn't be wise for you, not knowing the country, to try to find the field yourselves in the dark. At eight-forty-five you will stand by, ready to move off. At nine, a farm cart that has taken vegetables to the central market will pull up outside the sc.r.a.p-metal yard which I have already mentioned. It's at the corner, about fifty yards from my door. I'd rather the cart didn't stop outside the house. If you hear the driver speak to his horse you will know that no one is in sight. Get into the cart. Cover yourselves with the old sacks which you will find in it. There's no need for you to say anything to the driver. He will indicate when you have arrived at the objective. The journey will take a good three hours. Once you have seen the field the rest will be up to you. I'm sorry if I appear to have made the thing sound melodramatic, but in my experience it doesn't do to leave anything to chance. Success in this sort of operation is more often than not determined by careful planning before the start.'

'How right you are,' agreed Biggles.

'Is there anything you can think of that you might require?' 'We're pretty well equipped, but I'd like a powerful torch, to bring the machine down.'