Here was his first lesson about flying. If all went well, the trees were inconsequential. Yet by planning for the unexpected, old man Mitchell had given himself every edge. Today, a few feet meant nothing. On another day it might be the difference. Braun understood completely, drawing any number of parallels to his own exploits of the last years. Never leave food or ammunition behind when you have an empty pocket. If you lose a button, sew it back on securely because staying dry was paramount. The small things.
Mitchell banked a smooth arc to the west where a series of low ridgelines dominated, huge waves on an evergreen ocean. In the distant haze behind, Braun could just make out the coastline. The individual mansions were dots, and he couldn't begin to discern which was Harrold House, where a small army of lawmen were no doubt gathering. Along with Major Michael Thatcher, whoever the hell he was. And Lydia.
She was such a simple, transparent woman, Braun thought. In spite of the years, she had still been under his charm, throwing herself at him freely, no regard given to her husband or her family. He was sure this was not her habit — Lydia was not a tramp. She was naive, a child in a woman's body. He briefly wondered if he had harmed her by sending her clattering down the stairs. It hardly mattered. His designs on Lydia were dashed, and Braun shrugged the thought away. She meant nothing. Lydia was little more than a conveyance, a channel to the existence he wanted. Braun would simply have to find another Lydia. Or perhaps something else. The other opportunity that had been quietly nagging. Die Wespe. Could there still be value in what the spy offered? Perhaps. But the immediate task was to get clear.
Braun watched Mitchell's boney hands as they caressed the controls. He watched his eyes alternate between the instruments and gauges, a firm pattern established. There was purpose in every movement and Braun decided that he liked the concept of flight — the control, the delicate accuracy. He kept studying the old man as Newport dissolved into the haze behind.
Chapter 23
The library at Harrold House became a center for recovery. Thatcher tended to his own wounds while the rest — including the family doctor, a bespectacled, white-haired man — saw to Lydia. The palms of Thatcher's hands were raw from his dive across the gravel, and his foot had swelled heavily at the arch — he wasn't sure where in the scrum that had happened. His throat was sore on the outside now, a complement to the internal rawness he'd started with. It was all a constant reminder of how close he'd come. If Sargent Cole had shown up thirty seconds later—
Thatcher had called Jones right away upon returning to the house. The FBI was on the way, to arrive within the hour. In the meantime, the local police established temporary jurisdiction. The detective in charge peppered Sargent Cole, his wife, and the servants about the man they knew as Alexander Brown. Thatcher wiped antiseptic gauze over his hands and listened closely.
"He arrived unexpectedly on our doorstep," Sargent said, "just over two weeks ago. He was an old friend of Lydia's. Said he'd been serving in the Army. He was on leave and had to report soon for duty in the Pacific."
Sargent Cole carried on until the detective finally said, "I wish I'd known more about this yesterday." Thatcher stepped in. "Yesterday?"
The detective answered. "I was here to investigate a disappearance. Mrs. Cole's … er … Murray's husband, Edward. He was lost at sea."
"Lost at sea?" Thatcher pleaded.
The detective hesitated, sounding like the foreman of a hung jury. "Our suspect, Brown, and the Murrays were aboard the family sailboat when Edward disappeared. It seemed to be an accident —" his voice trailed off.
"It would hardly seem that way now," Sargent said.
Thatcher eyed the widow, Lydia Murray, who was presently laid out across a couch. Her head rested in her mother's lap as the family doctor tended to a knot over one eye. She also had a nasty gash across a shin, and bruises mottled her pale skin like spots on a jaguar. Thatcher knew he was to blame. He had barged in on a dangerous man — a mistake he would not make again.
The detective addressed Thatcher. "So tell me, Major, why are you after this fellow? Is he a deserter?"
"A deserter? Anything but. We think he's a Nazi spy."
"Nazi?" Sargent Cole boomed. "We've known him for years, he's an American!"
"He was born here," Thatcher allowed, "but he fought with Germany. And in the end, probably because he was so authentically American, he was recruited by the SD, German Intelligence."
Sargent Cole, standing by his daughter's side, grew visibly angry as the prism of this new information cast a shifting light. "So he really might have killed Edward."
Lydia moaned. The doctor eased a hypodermic needle into her arm.
"It's a distinct possibility," Thatcher said.
The policeman suggested, "If he's a spy, like you say, then the FBI will take over."
Thatcher said, "The man I called earlier has been lightly involved in the case. I expect he'll go deeper now." He addressed the Coles. "We have to find out where Braun might be headed. Did he say anything to suggest a destination?"
"Alex played himself off as a soldier — one of ours" Sargent said. "He told us he'd be heading out west soon to join his unit."
"Did he give any specifics?"
"No," Sargent admitted, "it was all very general. A pack of lies — I see that now. But I do know he's from Minnesota. His father was a timber man there."
"At one point, yes," Thatcher said. "But those interests were sold before the war. And his father was an outspoken supporter of Hitler. I can't see Alex Brown going back there now."
Sargent Cole said, "So where in the hell will he go?"
Thatcher eyed Lydia who was catatonic on the couch. "Where indeed."
The first fuel stop came in Pennsylvania, a little strip called Franklin. Mitchell guided the Luscombe to a gentle landing, talking through it as he went.
"First settle the mains, but keep flying. Always keep flying. Then you ease the tail down." The little craft settled, bumping to a crawl before Mitchell turned it toward a small building. "The next one'll be yours," he said.
They were on the ground only long enough to take on fuel and drink a soda. The old man then walked Braun through a pre-flight inspection, checking the propeller, oil, fuel, and flight controls. When they got back in, Braun took the left seat while Mitchell stood at the door and walked him through the starting procedure. He pulled a worn card from under the seat, greasy fingerprints smudged across the thick paper. Braun had not seen it before. "This is a checklist. It'll help you not miss anything until you get the hang of it."
Braun took the card and went through the steps systematically. When all the switches and levers were set he shouted, "Contact!"
Mitchell turned the propeller and the warm engine caught right away. The instructor scurried around to the passenger seat and belted himself in. "Flying's the easy part," he said. "If you can drive her on the ground you've got it licked." He pointed down to the pedals at Braun's feet. "It's got heel brakes. If you want to go left, give her some power and tap the left brake."
Braun executed a jerky turn to point them in the general direction of the landing strip.
"Keep her to one side as you taxi to the end," Mitchell said. "You never know when another airplane is gonna show up."
Braun looked skyward. The only other plane he could see was sitting outside a hangar, and that particular craft was missing an engine. Still, he took the lesson — some airfields would indeed be busier.
At the end of the runway they paused to run up the power and check the magnetos, the electrical wonders that sparked the engine. With the checks complete, Mitchell talked Braun through the takeoff. Directional control was maintained using the pedals on the floor, which controlled the rudder on the tail, much like the rudder on a boat. The ground roll was bumpy, but as soon as the main wheels lifted everything smoothed out.