Osborne was standing in the doorway, gaping at the gunman. Just behind him was a soldier, wearing the scarlet armband of the Military Police.
'What the dickens, who the devil...?' Osborne managed to say as the soldier pushed him roughly out of the way. But it was too late. The gunman fired - once. Osborne crashed back against the door from the impact of the bullet. The gunman leaped to the window and fired again wildly as he clambered through. The bullet missed the soldier, who had started to rush forward, but sent him sprawling for cover.
From where he lay he blew his whistle for aid, while Osborne collapsed slowly to the ground with his left hand clasped to his right shoulder and a frozen look of surprise on his face.
'What a damned ridiculous thing to happen,' he said slowly and distinctly, and then slumped forward.
Outside, in the darkness and the gusty rain, unseen hands grabbed Fleming and Andre. They were picked up bodily and pushed into the back of a van. The rear doors were slammed shut, and the engine started. Then with a scream of protesting tyres the van shot away, rocking so violently that it was impossible for Fleming to get to his feet. The vehicle gathered more speed on the long straight drive to the gates.
Fleming heard confused shouts as they roared past the guard room and on to the highway. Time after time they almost overturned as the driver took sharp turns at full speed, the sideways skids forcing Andre and Fleming to lie flat, bracing their feet against the steel sides.
After a while they settled down to a fast, steady speed.
Fleming guessed that they were on a motorway. He cursed the fact that he had no watch, But he estimated that this stretch lasted for half an hour - say forty miles since they had started.
The van slowed, swerved to the right and again there came bursts of speed alternating with abrupt turns. The bumpiness suggested a badly made road or lane.
Gingerly he stood up and with the aid of the futile flame from his cigarette lighter looked quickly round the van. He knew it was just a gesture. The interior was solid metal. The door was secured by the usual lock bars from the outside.
There was no aperture beyond a small wire-meshed peep hole at the front near the driver. This was covered.
The van slowed down to a crawl, cruising slowly over uneven ground. It began to bump badly and the tyres made no more noise. They were obviously on grass. Then the van stopped.
There was a pause before the rear doors were opened.
Rain was pouring down. Kaufman stood there smiling in the glimmer of a shaded flash light held by someone to the rear.
Beside Kaufman stood the gunman.
'Well, Doctor,' said Kaufman, 'will you be so good as to get out; the young lady as well ?'
Taking his time, Fleming jumped down. He lifted Andre out. 'Your friend has rubbed out the perfectly harmless Osborne,' he told Kaufman. 'I wouldn't say that we're harmless, so what's your programme in our case? And where are we?
'On a disused airfield of our great American allies,' Kaufman said. 'The runways are enormous and still excellent. We are saving you the unpleasantness of a trial and imprisonment for sabotage. I am sure your Government consider you a traitor.' He removed his glasses and cleaned off the globules of rain. 'No more time for talking.' He seemed almost regretful.
'The plane must leave immediately. Come!'
The gunman moved behind Fleming, and Kaufman led the way. Soon Fleming could see the wet, shining surface of an aircraft fuselage.
'Welcome aboard madame - and you, sir,' said a woman's voice.
Fleming laughed at the madness of it. The girl at the top of the aircraft's steps was neatly dressed in a dark blue uniform. She was the usual type of air stewardess, trim, neat, and pretty. In the glowing red of the night emergency lights in the cabin Fleming saw that she was oriental. Swiftly she directed her guests to a couple of seats forward, helping them to fasten their safety belts. She completely ignored the man with the gun, who went to the seat across the gangway and sat there, half turned towards them, the gun still in his hands.
Kaufman disappeared through the crew door. The starter motor whirred. First one engine whined, then a second.
'Jets!' muttered Fleming to himself. 'Trust Intel to do things properly. No expense spared.'
There was no run-up of power. The jets were given full throttle with the brakes on; they sighed down from their crescendo, and then began to whine once more. The aircraft moved smoothly down the runway.
As soon as they were airborne they climbed steeply. The pilot obviously intended to get well clear of the commercial air lanes with their inquisitive radar controls. Soon they were through the clouds and bathed in cold moonlight. Fleming estimated from the stars he could identify that they were heading in a southerly direction.
When Kaufman emerged from the cabin he confirmed this. 'We have just crossed the English coast,' he beamed.
'We are now over international waters. All is well. I suggest you try to get some sleep after the hostess has served refreshments.
We shall be landing in about four hours in North Africa.'
'Whereabouts in North Africa?' Fleming enquired.
'Of no importance,' said the German. 'Just for refuelling.
The major part of the journey follows. To Azaran.'
CHAPTER FIVE
SUNNY AND WARM
DAYLIGHT came long before the aircraft slowly lost height and crossed the Azaran frontier. Fleming, gloomily looking through the aircraft window, found nothing to arouse his interest. The brown-grey land, flat and interminably dreary, stretched towards the horizon where low hills drew an uneven contour. Now and then he saw a blur of dust where a camel train moved along the dark threads which marked the age-old desert tracks. Apart from a few ragged shaped blobs of lighter contours, the pattern of a few miserable houses round a water hole, the place seemed lifeless.
The jet's whine sunk to a hum and the port wing dipped.
Below, Fleming saw the discs of the top of oil tanks, and not far from them the tracery of derricks. The ground slid closer and a town came into focus, its white buildings brilliant in the morning sun. The aircraft swung the other way, and the horizon dropped past Fleming's window. When the machine levelled off he just had time to note a long grey building, flat roofed and modern. It stood isolated some five miles from the town.
The jet engines picked up power, eased, and faded. They were landing.
A soft heat struck their faces like a muffled blow when they emerged from the cabin. Arab soldiers, in battledress and American-style steel helmets, lounged around with sten guns at the ready. An ancient British limousine, the camouflage paint peeling from its body, drew up beside the aircraft.
Kaufman, sweating profusely, hustled Fleming and Andre into the rear seat. He himself sat beside the army driver.
A good concrete road led straight into the town. As soon as they reached the slummy outskirts, where huts roofed with battered corrugated iron clashed obscenely with decrepit but still lovely houses of traditional Arabic architecture the road widened into a badly maintained highway, packed with people. Women, veiled and graceful, led donkeys half hidden under huge panniers. Some men were in Arab costume, but most wore cheap, shabby Western clothes.
The Azaran flag hung from every building. Here and there loud speakers blared Oriental music, the discord heightened by distortion. The driver went full tilt into the mob, his hand continually on the horn ring. Past the huge market place, where hundreds were standing around, aimless yet animated, the car swung through the narrow entrance to a large house.
Two sentries looked poker faced at the car's passengers as the driver carefully steered the car into the cool, shady courtyard round which the house was built.