The Swiss Courier: A Novel (32 page)

“No way I was getting in forty winks—not tonight,” Bill replied.

Ernie flipped off the headlamps, revealing a clear evening lit by a nearly full moon. “I told Gabi we’d meet at the train station since we can’t risk a rendezvous in a public place like a restaurant.”

“Mind if I stretch my legs a bit?”

“I’ll join you. I could use some blood circulation myself.”

Bill stepped out of the car and marveled how much warmer the Swiss Lowlands were compared to the Alps. It had to be close to 70 degrees on this warm, moist evening. He wind-milled his arms to loosen up and was performing a set of knee bends when a powder blue Citroën carefully swung into the parking lot, still managing to kick up some dust.

Ernie greeted his daughter with a kiss, but formal introductions weren’t necessary.

“Bill, you remember Gabi from the First of August celebration in Davos.”

“I certainly do.” Bill doffed his Eighth Air Force cap and shook hands with Gabi, who even in this low light still appeared to be a looker.

“And a good friend of ours, Eric Hofstadler, who’s still learning English.”

“You have to watch out for this one.” Bill laughed. “I think he understands more than he’s letting on, especially when you’re talking about Gabi. I made a joke that Eric better keep an eye on Gabi with all the American pilots around . . .”

A dull rumbling in the distance grew with intensity as the source drew closer.

“What’s that sound?” Gabi asked, and all froze.

Bill cupped an ear toward the propeller whine coming from the west. “I know those engines anywhere. That’s a—”

An American B-17 bomber roared past, not 200 feet overhead, drowning out his voice. The bomber’s tail was adorned with an equilateral white triangle and a black “C” painted in the center of the triangle. The wings dipped from side to side as smoke billowed out of the No. 3 and 4 engines.

“She’s in trouble,” Bill said. “Must have taken a hit over Germany. C’mon, guys, you’re almost there.” He didn’t take his eyes off the stricken plane until it dipped below the tree line on its final approach into the Dübendorf military airfield.

“One of those guys can have my bed in Davos.” Seeing the wobbly American bomber reminded Bill that he was back in the game. The war was still on, and there was a mission with his name written on the chalkboard.

He clasped his hands. “So what’s the plan? We certainly can’t fly that busted B-17 into Germany.”

Ernie Mueller looked toward his daughter. “Mr. Dulles put you in charge of the mission tonight.”

Gabi straightened her shoulders. “He did, and he said I could enlist your help with, ah, liberating a plane. Are you okay with that?”

Ernie translated for Eric, and they both nodded.

“Good.” Gabi, dressed in khaki pants and matching jacket, caught Bill’s eye first. “Here’s a change of clothes,” she said, handing him a leather satchel. “I don’t think a U.S. military uniform is a good idea, not tonight. Once you get changed, we’ll see if the Swiss Air Force has their guard up.”

Bill Palmer hunched behind the bramble bushes, just meters behind a chain-link fence—topped with two strands of barbed wire—that marked the perimeter of the Dübendorf military airfield. He, along with Gabi and Ernie Mueller and Eric Hofstadler, had chosen to hide in the foliated overgrowth on the south side of the quadrilateral-shaped Dübendorf airfield, where the main runway ran east to west. The village of Dübendorf lay beyond the northwest corner.

From their concealed position, Bill could see the crippled B-17, with wisps of white and black smoke still rising from its engine cowlings, parked several hundred yards away at the east end of the military base. Ernie had told him on the drive from Davos that the Dübendorf airfield was considered the birthplace of the Swiss Air Force with the establishment of a
Schweizer Fliegertruppe
in 1914. Charged with policing neutral Swiss airspace from constant Allied and Axis intrusions, it looked like Swiss Me-109 fighters had escorted another banged-up American bomber to Swiss soil.

The B-17’s final resting point was at the end of six rows of Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators, and British Lancasters positioned nose-to-tail with a precision that typified the Swiss desire for orderliness. Ten American crew members stood at attention under the floodlights’ glare while Swiss military personnel rummaged through the grounded plane.

“Velcome to Sveetzerland. For you, ze vor ist over,” Bill said, imitating his captor’s Swiss accent that he had heard back in January. Gabi and her father exchanged glances, but neither cracked a smile because of the situation’s seriousness.

“Just what we need,” Gabi said. “The Swiss military on heightened alert at the same time we want to borrow one of their airplanes.”

She raised a pair of binoculars and swept the airfield beyond the assemblage of American and British flying machines. “Most of the Swiss aircraft are buttoned up in the hangars”— she pointed across the airfield—“but there could be something past the B-17s and B-24s. Care to take a look?”

Bill accepted the binoculars from Gabi and peered toward the southeast corner. “Past the Allied boneyard, I see a handful of Swiss Messerschmitt 109s, but they’re single-seaters like our Mustangs and Thunderbolts. They won’t do—wait, I see a couple of . . . Schlepp 3603s. They’re fast as greased lightning, two machine guns in the wings, and they’re two-seaters. You might have to sit on someone’s lap on the way back, but a Schlepp could do the trick.”

Bill dropped the binoculars to his chest. “I forgot a couple of things, though. With these single-engine fighters, you couldn’t assist me with the German words on the instrument panel. I don’t even know the German word for fuel.”

“That would be
Benzin
.” Gabi adopted a teacher mode. “Just think of a Mercedes Benz—
Benzin
.”

“Benzin. Okay, I think I got that. And magnetos for the ignition would be called—”

Bill’s question was drowned out by the deep, steady thrum of radial engines on final approach.

“What’s that?” Gabi pointed toward a slow, ponderous aircraft coming their way. A solitary landing light came on, and the pilot flattened out the silver-and-black plane for a two-point landing down the center of a grass runway. Under incandescent moonlight, a white cross against a square red background had been painted on the empennage of the
Schweizer Luftwaffe
airplane.

Bill peered through the binoculars. “Never thought I’d see a Junkers in real life.”

“A what?” Gabi asked.

“It’s a Junkers Ju-52—a transport plane. Made in Germany.”

Ernie hid a laugh. “I don’t think Bill knows it’s pronounced
Yunkers
, which is the proper way to say it in German,” he said, pronouncing the
Ju-
prefix to sound like
you
.

“Yunkers?” Bill said. “Back in the States, we called them ‘Junkers,’ because we thought they were junk. ‘Iron Annie’ was our other nickname. A decent enough bird, though, considering all the drag from the corrugated metal skin hanging on the fuselage and wings. Seats fourteen or sixteen, range of 1,000 kilometers. Three BMW engines top out at a speed of 265, 275 kilometers per hour. Junkers were workhorses for Lufthansa before the war, like our Douglas DC-3s back in the States. So where’s she stopping?” He lifted the binoculars and tracked the Ju-52 until she came to rest next to a line of parked Swiss fighters at the main hut just to the right of their position. “Looks like big brass is aboard.”

A dozen Swiss Army personnel sprinted from the operations building and formed a receiving line. A solitary officer positioned himself in front of the fuselage door—located on the port side, aft. As the first passenger exited, the receiving line stiffened and, in unison, presented arms. The attending officer offered a snappy salute to the uniformed man gingerly stepping down a four-rung ladder.

Bill squinted into the binoculars. “Lots of spit and polish. I wonder who the VIP is.”

“Let me take a look.” Gabi accepted the binoculars and studied the form addressing the officer on call.

The visitor was soon joined by three other passengers—all uniformed—making their way down the small ladder.

“I’m not sure—wait, I’ve got a profile. If I were a bettor, I’d say that’s General Guisan.”

“You can make him out from here? Who’s he?”

“Henri Guisan is our General Eisenhower,” Gabi replied. “They’ll name streets after him when the war’s over. General Guisan’s done more to prevent the Germans from invading Switzerland than anyone else. When things looked their bleakest during the dark days of 1940, the general mobilized this country by invoking the medieval battle of Morgarten, where 1,500 Swiss peasants ambushed and defeated 5,000 Austrian knights. That happened back in 1315—way before our time.”

“I’ll say. So what’s the general doing here?”

“Probably flew in for a meeting. Guisan’s HQ is near Interlaken, and he flies around the country to keep in personal touch with his commanders. Makes sense that he’d fly in here if he had a high-level conference in Zurich.”

Bill lowered his head, lost in thought. His idea could work . . .

“Got something?” Gabi asked.

He pushed up the bill of his nondescript beige cap. “I think I just figured out which plane to steal.”

Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, wearing a black leather trench coat and calf-high leather boots, stormed out of Gestapo Regional Headquarters onto Eppelheimer Strasse in a cranky mood. His eyes searched the darkness until he found Corporal Becker twenty meters away, standing next to a pair of Mercedes sedans, each flagged with swastika pennants mounted behind the headlights.

“Where have you been, Becker?” he shouted. “I was waiting ten minutes in the courtyard. Isn’t that where our cars always arrive from the motor pool?” Kassler felt the steam building where his neck met his black tunic.

“I beg your indulgence, sir. Someone new in the motor pool just started the night shift and didn’t know proper procedure. But we’re ready to go. Except for . . .”

“Except for what?”

“The driver is unaccounted for, so I’ll drive tonight.” Becker moved to open the rear door to the sedan for his superior.

“Very well. You know the route?” Kassler couldn’t afford an
aussichtslose Verfolgung
—wild-goose chase—on a night like this. Every minute, even at this late hour, could be the difference between capturing Engel or letting him slip away. The looming deadline to appear in Himmler’s presence tomorrow night, with or without Engel, weighed heavily on Kassler’s shoulders.

“I called the Leimen Polizei and got directions,” Becker said. “They told me it can get tricky at night, but we’ll find the Ulrich farm.”

“The detail is arranged?”

“I have five men in the second car.” Becker motioned to the black sedan idling behind them.

“Then let’s go. Herr Engel is waiting for us.”

Two hundred meters to Gabi Mueller’s right, she and the others watched the Ju-52 pilots depart from the plane and enter the terminus building, where the lights inside burned brightly. The sticky evening air pressed around her, and her nerves tingled with crackling energy.

“What do you think they’re doing?” she asked Bill.

Hidden behind bushes, the American pilot leaned close, even though it was doubtful any Swiss personnel were near enough to overhear him. “They’re sitting down for a cup of coffee and getting briefed about the weather for the return trip,” he whispered.

Gabi’s eyes swept the grassy tarmac for any Swiss military patrols in the immediate vicinity. “Time to get the show on the road.” She motioned to Eric, who sprang toward the cyclone fence clutching a pair of red bolt cutters that could handle the nine-gauge wire. Starting from the bottom, he clipped through link after link until he created a gap large enough for Gabi and Bill to pass through. She watched in awe as Eric sliced through the wire fencing as if he’d done it every day of his life.

Gabi regarded the Swiss soldiers who, with rifles leveled at the B-17 airmen, surrounded the American intruders a couple of hundred meters from her position. Although they were out of earshot, she worried an observant Swiss might turn in their direction.

Please don’t look this way
. . . Her eyes moved back to the operations hut, where she expected the Junkers pilots to return to their plane any moment. Either event would vastly complicate the plan that she and Mr. Dulles had devised that afternoon.

Eric sliced through the last link in the cyclone fencing and yanked on each side, opening a large gap.

She nodded at Bill. “You go first,” she whispered.

Bill crouched and slipped through the fence, and Eric moved to Gabi, taking her hand. Even in the nighttime dimness, she could see concern in his gaze. When he moved her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips, the gravity of the mission slammed home full force. The events of the morning—the confrontation in the villa in Weil am Rhein and the gunshot’s narrow miss—still lingered, and she felt blood drain from her face. This really was the point of no return.

“Will you be okay?” Eric cupped both of her cool hands into his and rubbed them to boost circulation.

Gabi steeled herself. “Sorry . . . a lot has happened today. But I’ll be fine. It’s just a short trip, and then I’ll be back. I promise.”

Eric leaned over and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

Her father drew close and patted her on the left shoulder. “Eric and I will be waiting here for you—and praying. You have some mighty protection behind you.”