The Proxy Assassin (15 page)

Stela wished Dragomir good luck. He nodded.

I knew the Captain had instructed two of his men to remain behind and look after Princess Stela. He knew she would kill to be on that supply plane with her son when it took off in a few hours time.

Turned out he was right.

“And now we must put young Vlad to bed,” said Stela and whispered off on slippered feet, Cosmina scurrying behind.

Stela had assured me she had an escape plan in place. I didn't press, figured she'd seduced some young fool into helping her to sneak out the window and roll on down the road.

I was clear with her about one thing. We had a short runway, no additional passengers would be permitted. Not even the boy king's adored nanny.

Princess Stela assured me this would not be a problem.

I had given her a hand-drawn map detailing her hiding place on the thickly wooded far side of the landing strip, the side opposite the road.

The C-45 would taxi to the end of the runway and turn around. She and the boy were to scramble up a rope ladder tossed from the cockpit after Dragomir and his men offloaded the cargo on the opposite side of the plane.

It was high risk. Anyone looking under the plane's fuselage would spot their approach even in the dim torch light. I was
counting on the Captain's men being preoccupied by two things that delight men everywhere.

Guns and loot.

I had a date with COYOTE for 2200 hours. At 2000 hours Dragomir herded six of his men into the back of a troop truck they had commandeered from the army garrison. It was a small number for a big mission. Maybe the other core members of his cadre were done in by the exertion of the previous night's activities.

Sure, Schroeder. More likely Sorin Dragomir only had six men he could trust to handle a fortune in gold.

We began the twenty-mile trip to our improvised landing field, the Captain, wearing knitted leather driving gloves, at the wheel. I rode shotgun.

I assumed, that is to say hoped, that Stela and her son had enough of a head start so that we wouldn't overtake them on the road. They'd have a hell of a time getting to their hiding place with Dragomir's men prowling the perimeter.

The Captain was in a cheery mood, singing snatches of patriotic songs and one burst of “God Bless America, land that I love!”

Why not? He was about to assume an important role. He was about to become the spear point of Western Civilization's attempt to pierce the Iron Curtain. By his own account his success might lead to anti-Communist insurrections in a number of Balkan countries.

Little wonder Frank Wisner had signed off on Dragomir's request for twenty-five thousand dollars in gold. Frank Wisner wouldn't have blinked at five times that amount.

-----

We arrived at the landing strip forty-eight minutes early. I was still carrying Captain Dragomir's pocket watch which I intended to give back to him before I boarded the plane.

I
looked across the runway to Stela's designated hiding place, hoping she was hunkered down with the boy king. Shit, the kid was only three. What if he started bawling?

Don't sweat it, Schroeder. PS will stuff a rag in his mouth if she has to.

Dragomir's men set about lighting the landing strip's perimeter, using plump little smudge pots filled with kerosene instead of torches.

After that we spent fifty long minutes listening to crickets chirp. I radioed COYOTE at 2210 even though he was the one who was supposed to initiate contact. No reply.

Dragomir's men muttered darkly and shot me looks. It was all I could do not to shrug. The Captain remained silent.

A light rain started to fall and I felt something I didn't expect to feel. Relief. This operation always had a creepy funhouse feel to it. I still wanted out of here and I still wanted Captain Dragomir to succeed. Yet I felt relieved as the rain fell.

And then the J/E lit up.

COYOTE wanted to know if they could land. I told the Captain to drive the troop truck onto the landing strip, speed up, then hit the brakes.

He did that. The truck tires didn't sink down but about a quarter inch.

I passed this information along to COYOTE. He had twang, this flyboy.

“Roger that, TIMBER. We din't just buck through a hunnert miles o' thunderheads to bang a U'ey. Clear the decks, we're rollin' in.”

“Roger dodger, you old codger.”

Always wanted to say that on the radio. It looked like we were going to do this thing after all.

The C-45 roared in and touched down without much difficulty. It taxied to the end of the runway and turned around at the stand of trees.

I was
surprised to see that it had been painted black and bore no markings of any sort. They didn't want to display the USAF roundel on a secret mission of course, but Beech made a civilian version of the C-45 that was used by mail haulers and such.

Amateurs. A mail plane would have been a more effective disguise. Black screamed cloak and dagger.

I ran up to greet the crew and gave them the all clear. They opened the cargo bay. The truck rumbled up to offload the supplies.

I was supposed to give Stela a flashlight signal when the offloading was complete, her cue to come forward.

But when the loading was done and the truck eased away from the plane all hell broke loose.

Half a dozen jeeps roared out of the stand of trees behind the strip, lights blaring, mounted machine guns firing.

I raced for a clump of bushes by the road, figuring the C-45 would be a target.

But there was no gunfire toward the plane and no gunfire from the plane.

I hit the dirt and crawled behind the clump of bushes.

Captain Dragomir had two men flanking the truck, one on each side, and another bringing up the rear. They carried automatic rifles captured at the garrison. They would have been better off with their Lee-Enfields. They struggled to operate their new weapons and were quickly cut down.

I felt that familiar wall come down. The one that protected me from the shock of combat. The eerie calm that said
this is something you can worry about later. Now is not the time
.

The kill squad shot up the truck's tires instead of concentrating their firepower on Dragomir and his companion in the cab, who was squeezing off a few piddling pistol rounds. The other two men were in the tarp-covered bed of the truck, cowering or dead.

The kill squad wasn't in uniform. They were driving GAZ-67s. They wanted to take Sorin Dragomir alive.

They
were NKVD. Beria wouldn't trust the
Securitate
with a job this big.

A deep voice spoke over a bullhorn. I recognized the language as Romanian. I surmised the content as ‘Come out with your hands up.'

Captain Dragomir did just that, to my shock and dismay. He marched resolutely toward the man with the bullhorn, his hands held high.

I noticed something odd about his attire. He had doffed his jacket and gloves before he climbed out of the truck. Shame on me for doubting him.

Two men jumped out of the lead jeep to grab him as he approached.

Dragomir reached behind his back and whipped out the handgun he had wedged in his belt and fired four rounds at the man with the bullhorn before the machine gunners cut him to ribbons.

The head man clutched his throat with one hand and reflexively squeezed the bullhorn trigger with his other so that his death gurgle was broadcast out across the runway.

The Blue Caps were shocked to silence as their commander toppled from the jeep.

Then the second-in-command seized the bullhorn and started barking commands.

I suppose a true hero would have unholstered his six shooter, raced into battle to avenge his leader and gone out in a blaze of glory.

But the thought never occurred to me. If Dragomir's remaining men didn't get killed here they would be captured, interrogated and killed later. I was the only one left who could tell his story. How Captain Sorin Dragomir, loyal monarchist and fierce anti-Communist crusader, had martyred himself for the cause.

That's what I told myself anyway.

Dragomir's companion in the cab hit the dirt as instructed and was cuffed and carted off. The Blue Cap with the bullhorn addressed himself to the back of the truck as the GAZ-67 machine gunners trained their weapons in that direction.

I would like to report that these last core members of the Captain's cadre followed his example. I would especially like to report that they broke open the crates containing the anti-tank bazookas and went to town on those GAZ-67s. But they did not. They surrendered meekly.

I have
always had a healthy skepticism of leaders. Big egos and wisdom don't often come in the same package. But leaders do come in handy once the shit hits the fan. Dragomir's men knew their leader was dead and that took all the starch out of them.

I looked to the sky. Thick clouds blacked out the moon and stars. I inched forward on my belly and felt the dirt runway. The pinprick rain hadn't done much damage, it was still hard packed.

Then I looked up from the dirt. I looked up to see two small figures duck under the belly of the plane and approach the light from the cargo bay. Princess Stela and her son.

What
was she
doing?
The chaos of the last few minutes had been the perfect opportunity for her to clamber up the rope ladder on the far side of the plane and into the cockpit.

The Blue Caps, the two who had jumped down from their jeeps to grab Dragomir, rushed over to intercept Stela and the boy. They wore black leather coats and held Makarov pistols. The bigger one rattled off an angry stream of Romanian.

PS calmly ushered her son behind her and replied in a different language. Russian. The men lowered their weapons. A heated argument ensued. Commissar Second-in-Command stalked over to join the fray. The boy king began to whimper.

Stela
set down her suitcase, picked him up and held him to her chest with both arms, her voice lower now, but firm, not pleading.

If she was the one who had blown the whistle on our covert operation why would the NKVD be giving her the third degree?

But if she hadn't, why would they abruptly turn away and allow her to climb up the step stair into the cargo bay. Which is what they did.

I was feeling a little left out, lying on my belly in the dirt while the cargo door got shut and sealed. At least they didn't fire up the propellers.

We might wait it out, the C-45 crew and me. They knew I was nearby. The Reds had gotten what they came for. They showed no interest in attacking the plane. They might disappear into the night and leave us sadass Yanks to lick our wounds.

Unfortunately the rain went from a gentle brush stroke to a Gene Krupa tom tom solo about then. I dug out my J/E, put on the phones and made a quiet call to COYOTE.

He answered instantly. I told him I was going to attempt to run across the landing strip.

“Deploy the rope ladder from right cockpit window. If I'm hit make no attempt at rescue. Take off as conditions dictate.”

“Roger, TIMBER. Best o' luck.”

I got my gun in hand and waited till the three Blue Caps disappeared into the troop truck, then put my head down and darted across the runway.

I could have dispensed with the darting. In fact I could've done a buck and wing while accompanying myself on accordion and the kill squad wouldn't have noticed. They were busy as ants on an all-day sucker, swarming the troop truck, exclaiming and shouting. If you can whoop in Russian they were doing that. They had, apparently, found the crate of gold sovereigns.

Co-pilot
COYOTE, a blue-eyed scamp with sandy hair, sought to keep things light after he hauled me in through the open window. He pressed his finger to my lips, looked over to the pilot and whispered what co-pilots are supposed to announce in a loud voice.

“Clear.”

They fired up the props. I staggered back to the cargo hold, took a jump seat and looked out a porthole window.

We throttled down the hardpan runway. It held up well despite the downpour, even the smudge pots stayed lit. Sorin Dragomir had done everything right.

I did not return Stela's happy smile as we torqued into the black sky for a long flight to an unknown destination. The Princess had a lot of questions to answer.

Boy, did she.

We flew
all night save for a quick refueling stop in northern Greece. We shared flyboy fare – salami on a hard roll and a coke.

The drone of the engines put little Vlad to sleep soon after takeoff. Stela held him on her lap. He was a handsome lad with light brown hair and rosy cheeks. He looked more like his dad than his mom.

I wanted to have a little chat with the Princess so I asked the loadmaster sergeant to go chat up the pilots for five or so. He nodded and climbed into the cramped cockpit. I looked over at Stela in the jump seat across from me. She met my stare defiantly.

“They knew me,” she said.

“The Blue Caps?”

“Da
. They were knowing all about Sibiu.”

“Then why the hell did they let you board? You took part in the uprising!”

She winced and held up her hand at my raised voice, as if I was some loudmouth drunk. Pissed me off.

I leaned over and growled, “Answer the damn question Stela.”

“I explain it to them. If I am arrested I am, I become a…how do you say? A saint who is killed?”

“A martyr.”

“Just so. A martyr to the people. But if I am to go on areoplane I become a…how do you say?”

“You know how you say.”

“A traitor?”

“Yeah,” I snorted, “just so.”

I leaned
in some more. “Why did you duck under the plane? Why didn't you climb up the rope ladder on the other side?”

“I did not have this ladder. When came all of the gun shootings your brave pilots hid away.”

Hate to say it but that sounded believable. Flyboys were notorious for feet of clay on terra firma. I would have to give COYOTE an enormous ration of shit.