Sahara Crosswind (12 page)

The minutes stretched into endless hours, and Jake fought against the restlessness of cramped and aching muscles. He dozed for a time, jerked awake as voices came within range and then passed by, dozed again.

The light had faded and the evening breeze had turned cool by the time Frank Towers returned. “Okay,” he said softly. “Coast is clear.”

Jake tossed aside the burlap over his face and scratched his scalp. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Another heap of burlap groaned, shivered, and fell to reveal a vastly disgruntled Pierre. “Which day?”

“I don't think I can move,” Jake said.

“Had to wait until things settled down for the night,” Towers said, crouching over a canvas duffel. He pulled out two zip-up flight coveralls and tossed them toward the groaning men. “Slip these on. If anybody stops us, you're new crew I've taken on for the second plane.”

With every muscle complaining, Jake stripped and dressed in the airman's one-piece uniform. He rolled up his army dress and tucked it in the canvas sack. “You really think this is necessary?”

“Hard to say. But at least this way your friends in Gibraltar will be able to grease your slide in, if you see what I mean.”

“It makes sense,” Pierre agreed.

“So what now?” Jake asked.

“You two look dead on your feet,” Towers replied. “Some friends of mine run a little guesthouse down the road a ways. Nothing fancy, but the food's good and the beds are clean.”

“Sounds perfect,” Jake said, suddenly ravenous. “But we don't have any money on us.”

“Don't you worry about that just yet, I'll take care of it and you can pay me back later. We'll just get you settled in there for what's left of the night. I've got an idea of how we can move forward, but it's gonna mean an early start tomorrow.” Towers grinned at Jake's almost silent moan. “Like they say, Colonel, you can sleep when the war's over.”

Chapter Fifteen

They were up and out before dawn, rumbling down the steeply sloped terrain in a car that appeared to be held together with spit and baling wire. Jake's single cup of coffee before departure had barely dented his drowsiness. But five minutes into the journey he was as awake as he had ever been in his entire life.

He leaned forward and said, “Do you think maybe you could ask the driver to slow down a little?”

“Wouldn't do a bit of good,” Towers replied cheerfully. “Folks around these parts say the Maltese don't drive on the left or the right, but in the shade. And they're taught to drive fast to keep up a steady breeze.”

The ancient vehicle raced down the hillside so fast the dawn-tinted vista outside Jake's window was reduced to a pallid blur. Every now and then, tendrils of fog teased their way across the street, obliterating all view of what lay ahead. “How can he see where we're going?”

“Probably can't,” Towers said. “But there aren't many roads on this island. He knows every twist and turn by heart.”

Jake decided that watching was doing his nerves no good whatsoever, so he turned to his friend. No help there. Pierre's face was an interesting shade of green. He turned back to the front. “How can you sit there so unconcerned?”

“Oh, I've found that driving around this island does my prayer life a powerful lot of good,” Towers replied easily.

They crested a final rise, and the city of Valletta came into view. Below them stretched a web of narrow, hilly streets, running down to the Grand Harbor and the Mediterranean's glorious blue. “The city was built by the Knights of St. John after they were kicked out of the Holy Land by the Ottomans,” Towers told them. “The original Knights of St. John were founded around the year eleven hundred. They were
people who helped Christians visiting the Holy Land, which wasn't all that easy with the Ottomans in charge. Charles of Spain gave them the island after the Arabs finally kicked them out of Jerusalem, and they came here and built the fortress you see down there. They made Valletta the capital in 1530.”

Whenever the narrow lanes reached a level patch, they opened into great stone-lined squares. Imposing churches stood surrounded by solid North Africa-type houses. Their little taxi whizzed through the empty plazas, then plunged back into rutted ways as pitched and tilting as a roller coaster track. Signs of war and ruin were everywhere.

“The knights were known as the fighting monks,” Towers went on, seemingly oblivious to the taxi's death-defying speed. “Six hundred of them and four thousand locals fought and held off an invasion of thirty thousand Ottomans. But with time the knights became richer and forgot that they were supposed to be brothers to the locals and not princes. Knight-generals started trying to outshine whatever their predecessors had built, blind to everything but their own selfish desires for earthly grandeur. The islanders were forgotten, ignored, and grew poorer. The gulf widened, and so when the French came at the end of the eighteenth century, the islanders welcomed them with open arms. They remained under the French until the British took control during the Napoleonic wars.”

The driver turned onto a grand boulevard lined with imposing buildings of state. “The main street of Valletta, Sta de Real,” Towers said. “We're almost there now.”

They turned onto another nameless alley and stopped before a tiny shop that differed from its neighbors only because the metal outer door had been drawn halfway up and because a crowned symbol over the shuttered window proclaimed that this was a local post office. Frank Towers was already out of the taxi before it had fully halted. He tapped on the door, which was opened by a sleep-touseled older gentleman. The
man shook Frank's hand and motioned impatiently for Jake and Pierre to enter.

Once they had slipped into the little shop, the proprietor slid the metal portal back down. He lifted the ancient lantern and led them into the back room, then set the lantern upon a table that was bare save for an ancient telegraph set. He seated himself, coded in, waited, listened at his headset, coded again. The minutes passed in silence. Finally he straightened, looked up at Frank Towers, and nodded once.

“Okay, boys, it's all yours.”

Jake looked at him. “What is?”

“You said you had buddies in Gibraltar, didn't you? Okay, now's your chance. Only make it fast. I promised the old gent here we'd be done and gone before he opened for the day.”

Jake seated himself, scrunched his head in concentration, then requested a patch-through to the Gibraltar garrison. The minutes dragged until the code sounded. He keyed in, THIS IS COLONEL JAKE BURNES. URGENT I SPEAK IMMEDIATELY WITH COMMANDER TEAVES OR ADMIRAL BINGHAM. TOP PRIORITY.

Again there was an interminable wait. Jake turned and asked for a pad and pencil, which would make the return messages easier to read clearly. Finally the set coded back, TEAVES HERE. REQUEST CONFIRMATION OF WHO IS ON THE LINE.

Jake grinned. Commander Harry Teaves was an American Naval officer assigned garrison duty in Gibraltar, and the man who helped them during their hunt for Patrique. Jake keyed in, HELLO HARRY. HOW ARE MILLIE AND THE APES?

The response was instantaneous. JAKE, YOU OLD JOKER. KNEW YOU WERE TOO TOUGH TO HOLD DOWN. SORRY TO INFORM YOU RECEIVED REPORT OF YOUR DEMISE SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK OF BEYOND. ASSUME YOU ARE THEREFORE SPEAKING FROM HEAVEN.

Jake said to Pierre, “Somebody's claimed the reward on my head.”

“It appears they try to use your papers as evidence,” Pierre agreed, squinting to decipher Jake's handwriting. “Pity we must disappoint them.”

Jake keyed in, YOU ARE NOT FAR OFF. AM IN MALTA.

There was a moment's pause, then, NO DOUBT A STORY THERE BUT MUST WAIT. SERVAIS WITH YOU?

ONE OF THEM. PATRIQUE TAKEN ILL, SENT TO FRENCH GARRISON HOSPITAL COLOMBE-BECHAR.

SITUATION CRITICAL HERE. URGENT REPEAT URGENT WE RECEIVE INFORMATION ON POSSIBLE TRAITOR.

Reading over his shoulder, Pierre murmured, “It appears, my friend, that your speculation was correct. The stakes were much higher than we thought.”

“Shame they're playing with our lives on the table,” Jake replied, and keyed in, WE CARRY WRITTEN CONFIRMATION. WHERE DO WE DELIVER?

IMPERATIVE YOU PROCEED TO US EMBASSY IN PARIS. ASK FOR WALTERS. HE IS YOUR FRIEND IN NEED. WAIT ONE. There was a long pause, then, OFFICIAL CONTACT IN MALTA QUESTIONABLE, NEW COMMANDANT, UNKNOWN TO BINGHAM. WE WILL MAKE SEARCH FOR ALLIES, BUT MUST MOVE WITH CAUTION. CAN YOU MAKE IT ON YOUR OWN?

PARIS. YOU DO NOT ASK MUCH, DO YOU. Jake thought a moment, then continued, PATRIQUE SERVAIS AT HOSPITAL ACCOMPANIED BY JASMYN COLTRANE. URGENT YOU RESCUE THEM BEFORE TOO LATE.

CONSIDER IT DONE. ANYTHING ELSE?

HOW ABOUT SOME FUNDS?

TRANSFER POSSIBLE. GIVE NAME AND BANK.

Jake asked Towers, “What's your bank here?”

“Midland. Why?”

FRANK TOWERS. MIDLAND BANK. MALTA BRANCH.

WILL DO TODAY. MALTA. HOW ON EARTH?

MEET ME IN PARIS. I WILL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT.

ROGER THAT. WILL CONTACT WALTERS MYSELF TODAY. ANY WAY HE CAN GET A MESSAGE BACK TO YOU?

Jake asked and received the post office's address and telegraph code. When he had passed on the information, he finished with, THANKS FOR HELPING HAND.

TOO FEW GOOD MEN AS IT IS. TAKE CARE. WATCH THE OLD NOGGIN. LET ME KNOW IF WE CAN DO MORE. WILL GET BUSY ON THIS END. SEE IF WE CAN RUSTLE UP SOME CAVALRY. TEAVES OUT.

Frank Towers inspected the page of messages over Jake's shoulder and said, “I guess you really are who you say you are.”

Jake turned around. “You didn't believe us?”

“Let's just say I was keeping a healthy dose of skepticism right close at hand,” Towers replied cheerfully. “There's a lot of tall-talers walking about these days, especially on the routes I'm flying. Anyway, glad I let you boys come along for the ride.”

“We are too,” Pierre replied. “And we are in your debt. Those are words I am saying quite often these days, but true just the same.”

“Speaking of which,” Jake said, “you will hopefully be receiving a hefty sum in the next few days.”

“Might as well come to me,” Towers drawled. “Seeing as how I aim on collecting as much as possible for services rendered.”

“You mean you'll help us?” Jake asked, then added, “More than you already have, I mean?”

“I've gotten you this far, might as well see where we end up.”

“That's great,” Jake said with feeling. “Is there any chance I could send another message to the U.S. Embassy in Paris?”

The old gentleman spoke for the first time, in English starched by an accent Jake had never heard before. “Is unlikely they have direct line,” he replied. “Leave message and I will send it myself.”

“You can trust ol' Carlos,” Towers assured them. “I oughta know. I'm planning on making an honest woman of his daughter.”

“Right.” Jake seated himself and swiftly composed a message to Consul Walters. He passed over the sheet and asked, “What now?”

“From the sounds of things, your best bet would be to lay low for a spell,” Towers replied, looking a question at the old man.

Carlos thought a minute, then replied simply, “Mdina.”

“Perfect,” Towers said.

“What is that?”

“Old capital. Also known as Notabile. Place is pretty as a picture and about as far off the beaten track as you can get on an island this size. I've got a buddy up there. C'mon, let's go see if he can stash you in some hole for a coupla days.”

Chapter Sixteen

The air was freshened by the steady sea breeze, warmed by the brilliant sun, and filled with birdsong and the fragrance of flowers. To their immense relief, Towers secured them transport with a driver willing to drive slower in return for a sizable tip. He kept his speed down, but punctuated his driving with scornful snorts for all fainthearted foreigners. Jake did not mind in the least. Pierre did not seem to hear him at all.

Their more comfortable pace granted Jake the chance to rubberneck. As they drove back through the gradually awakening city, he studied the faces out walking, talking, sweeping, working, filling the cafes, preparing for the day. The streets between the great squares were winding and odoriferous and lined with small shops and tall apartment buildings. The apartments' iron balustrades were often so close overhead that housewives could hand things from one side of the street to the other. The populace was a vivid mixture of races, every face testifying to a melange of Arab and Mediterranean bloodlines. Jake observed, “These people don't look like any I've ever seen before.”

Towers nodded his agreement. “Down the centuries, ships from Europe, Africa, and the Orient have dropped anchor here. Countless cultures have left their mark on the land and the people. Yet somehow through it all, the Maltese have remained their own folk.” Towers appeared to be enjoying the ride as much as Jake. “The Maltese are strange folks. Never seen much freedom, but they're the most freedom-loving people I've ever known. Can't be more than half a million of them, but they're proud as citizens of the greatest empire on earth. Got to admire people with that kinda spunk.”

“There seem to be a lot of churches,” Pierre observed.

“Yeah, there's a church for every day of the year, and they're all pretty well used,” Towers replied. “Wherever the Maltese
go, their God goes with 'em. Their religion is right there in the middle of everything they do. That's another part of the life here that agrees with me.”

“I can understand that sentiment perfectly,” Pierre murmured, “having seen how they drive.”

Towers pointed out his open window at a church they were passing. “This here's the Mosta Church. Three years ago, three bombs landed on the roof during a service. The hall was packed to the gills. Two of the bombs actually bounced off and landed in the courtyard. The other fell through the roof and came to rest in the middle of the congregation. None of the three exploded. Folks call it the Miracle of the Bombs. When you talk to the islanders about the war, this is the first thing they will tell you about. Not about all the bad things that happened, but about their miracle. How can you help but love people like that?”