Part 2 (2/2)
”I don't understand,” Deitel said.
”Chamberlain's working for the SD,” Rucker said flatly. The Sicherheitsdienst, or Secret Service, was the intelligence and foreign espionage agency of the SS.
That, of course, sent a chill up Deitel's back. He stuttered and stammered. ”I-I . . . I have my papers. I am a medical doctor and I am on a study sabbatical and-”
Rucker cut him off.
” 'A word to the wise . . .' ”
Deitel did a double take. It took a second for the words to come to him.
” 'A sight for the eyes,' ” he said, finis.h.i.+ng the prearranged recognition, then relaxing a little.
”So, Doc, now you and me are getting back aboard my bird and we're flying to Austin.”
”I thought that the engine . . .”
Rucker and Chuy could see the lightbulb flick on. There was no engine trouble. It was all to throw Chamberlain off track without making it look like they were throwing him off track.
”And you weren't really drunk this morning?”
Rucker nodded.
”Another ruse,” Chuy said. ”Our friends can only double-talk the fat Yank for so long. Chamberlain's not an official SD man, from what we know-he really is some kind of b.u.t.ton-sorter for some muckety-muck on the Union States payroll. But he's an a.s.set for the Germans,” The Brazilian nodded toward the office suite. ”Still, he's not really a direct threat.”
”Ergo,” Rucker said, ”You and me have to get moving if you want to make your appointment in Austin without the black jackets knowing you're doing anything more than medical research.”
Deitel gripped his satchel tightly ”It is the most vital information, it could mean-”
Rucker cut him off with a wave. ”Don't care. Save it for Austin. Not my business.”
Chuy was frowning, staring across the flight deck at one of the pa.s.senger lounges. He tapped Rucker's shoulder. Rucker followed his gaze.
”You see them?” the Brazilian giant asked.
”Yep,” Rucker nodded. ”And they see us. Dammit. German SD, and they are a direct threat.”
Deitel strained a bit too obviously to see what Rucker and Chuy were discussing. Two men in the starboard aft pa.s.senger lounge in dark overcoats and fedoras were looking their way and then at the office where an exasperated Chamberlain was being told to strip off his shoes, coat jacket, and to empty his pockets.
”What now?” Chuy asked.
Rucker scanned the flight deck. He spotted an older model, long-range cargo plane that bore a painting of a cartoon warthog on its nose. He smiled.
”Hey, you still in good with Jimmy M'Benga?” he asked Chuy.
The two men in fedoras were forcing their way through a line of pa.s.sengers crowding the terminal gate, intent on the office where an angry but obsequious Chamberlain was now stripped down to his s.h.i.+rt and underwear.
Chuy nodded. ”If by 'in good' you mean does he still owe us for those two crates of engine parts? Yes.”
”I got an idea,” Rucker said. He grabbed hold of Deitel's arm and told Chuy the plan. Meanwhile, through the gla.s.s, the men in fedoras were gesticulating, yelling, and pointing, first at Chamberlain and then at Deitel, and then at Rucker's friends who'd been playing Chamberlain for a mark.
Deitel was terribly confused. Rucker took off and yanked him along by the collar. They clanged down a metal stairway to the belowdecks while the SD men were still pus.h.i.+ng past crowds of pa.s.sengers. Once down the steps, the clang of heavy machinery fought with the droning sound of diesel and steam engines in what Deitel imagined was an active intent to deafen him. There was a chalkboard with a duty schedule at the base of the stairwell. Rucker grabbed a piece of chalk and went to his right, dragging Deitel by the collar, as Chuy went left.
The height of the ceiling in the cargo loading deck was twice as high as the terminal deck. Wooden crates were stacked upward of nine feet high in what amounted to a maze of goods bound for ports of call up and down the eastern seaboards of North and South America, and most islands in between. Steam-powered cargo pulleys on ceiling-mounted rails, controlled by crew loaders inside enclosed cabs at regular intervals throughout the expansive deck, allowed for movement of the boxes to and from cargo elevators to the flight deck above.
The German SD men bounded down the steps, Lugars drawn, on the hunt. Knowing their prey was only seconds ahead, they chose the likeliest looking route through the cargo boxes. They turned three corners and stopped short, surprised to find Deitel standing just six feet in front of them, his hands raised in surrender, his back to a line of cargo boxes stretching a hundred feet in each direction. One SD man trained his pistol on Deitel while the other swept his in a circle, looking for Rucker.
Deitel said something, but they couldn't hear it over the din of the steam and diesel engines. The first SD man took a few steps closer. Hands still raised, Deitel pointed down at the man's feet. Cautiously, the SD man looked down and saw he was standing on an X marked in chalk. Confused, he looked up at Deitel, who waved goodbye. He never saw the two-hundred-pound wooden crate that crashed into him, sliding along the guide rail above. The other SD man turned around just in time to see Rucker leap from where he was clinging to the cargo netting on the crate that had smashed his partner.
As a doctor, it was hard for Deitel to watch Rucker land on top of the SD man and then punch him in the face repeatedly. As a German of good conscience, it was a guilty pleasure.
Rucker stood up and waved to Chuy, sitting in the control cab for the cargo pulley system.
Ten minutes later the three were back on the flight deck as the Raposa was being refueled.
”Chamberlain is being detained by our friends,” Rucker told Deitel. ”They'll keep him on ice until we're away.”
”And the SD agents?”
Chuy smirked. ”Captain M'Benga makes the regular supply run to ile du Diable, the Devil's Island prison in French Guyana. By the time those two wake up, they'll be in the tender custody of the French authorities there, many of whom are war veterans who will be delighted to have boche guests.
Rucker checked his watch. ”Time to fly.”
Rucker and Chuy exchanged a handshake where they grasped one another's forearms instead of their hands.
”Give Tracy a kiss for me,” Rucker said.
”Take care, Fox.”
Then they were off in different directions.
”And your man . . . I mean, Mr. Lago? I mean Chuy,” Deitel said. He couldn't get used to the familiarity these people insisted on. ”Why isn't he coming with us?”
”He's on his way back to Rio. Hasn't seen Tracy in three weeks, and it's gettin' on their third wedding anniversary.”
The doctor and the pilot climbed back into the Raposa, and Rucker invited Deitel to take the co-pilot's seat for the short leg to Austin.
”Your government men take off time for such personal matters?”
The plane secured and the signal from the tower green, the elevator carrying the Raposa rose through the external lock to the flight deck as Rucker completed his preflight checklist.
”I guess. Maybe? Yeah? Don't rightly know.”
”You and Mr. Lago-”
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