The journey had taken thirty minutes. Kovalenko had been ready with dry clothing after plucking them out of Apra Harbor at the rendezvous point. Heinrich was still pulling on his dry boots.
"These boots, they do not fit!" he fussed.
"Just do your best, Karl. We'll find something better after we get on the airplane."
At a checkpoint, Kovalenko flashed the drowsy guard some kind of authorizing paper. Whatever it was, it had clout, and they were waved right through. The scrutiny might have been tougher had they been going to the "business end" of the airfield, where seemingly endless rows of B-29s were being loaded and readied for their next missions. Fortunately, they were going to the Transient Ramp. It was a tiny corner of North Field where a handful of transports sat idle, their fin flashes a mix of services and nationalities.
Braun caught Kovalenko's eye in the rear view mirror, and he wondered what the Russian was thinking. The man had not said a word since picking them up, but this was by design. Heinrich was not yet suspicious — but he certainly would be if he heard Kovalenko's severe Russian accent. Braun had not yet seen the most important thing — his money. Until he took possession of seven hundred thousand dollars, he would keep Karl Heinrich and his heavy suitcase very close indeed.
Heinrich finally wedged his boot on. Braun looked him over. A mechanic's khaki overalls strained at the seams. Scuffed boots, and a cap with a brim. Nothing to indicate rank or insignia. Just an anonymous wrench turner. Braun was dressed in a similar fashion, wearing workman's pants and a ubiquitous cotton shirt. All they had to do was get Heinrich and his collection of secrets calmly across a hundred feet of hardpan coral to the aircraft, a heavily modified Ilyushin transport. The pilot would have the engines running, ready to dash. For his part, Kovalenko was dressed as the co-pilot. It was rather unconvincing — his age and lack of fitness did not conjure up the image of a military aviator — but then, it was a Russian plane. The American soldiers might snicker and point, but there was nothing to raise an alarm.
Kovalenko drew the sedan to a stop just short of the aircraft ramp. The Russian gave Braun an almost imperceptible nod, then got out of the car and hurried toward the waiting Ilyushin. One of the aircraft's engines was already idling, and the second spit smoke as it started to turn. Braun watched from the car as Kovalenko climbed up a short set of stairs and disappeared into the airplane.
Thatcher and Lydia arrived on the hourly military bus that shuttled worker bees between the island's two main hives — the Navy base at Apra, and the Army Air Forces North Field. Lydia craned her neck to find what they were looking for — a mid-sized airplane with a red star on the tail.
"I don t see it," she said.
Thatcher concurred, "It's hard to see anything with all this hardware."
North Field was presently one of the busiest airports in the world, according to the pilot who'd brought them in. When Lydia looked out, she saw hundreds of huge bombers. For the moment, they sat still, surrounded by a flurry of carts, trucks, and men. But soon the fleet would be ready for the next big wave.
The bus stopped to let everyone off near a large tent that was labeled: MESS HALL. Thatcher took her hand and led the way, weaving amid a city of tents and prefabricated buildings. As they cleared a stinking line of latrines, Thatcher stopped cold.
"There!" he said.
Lydia saw it a few hundred feet away — the Russian transport, one engine already running. And walking across the ramp were two men dressed in workman's clothes. One she recognized instantly. "It's Alex!"
Thatcher nodded. "And the other man must be Wespe. Look at the case he's carrying. I'll bet I know what's inside."
"What can we do?"
Thatcher's eyes searched all around.
"There were Military Police back at the gate," Lydia suggested. "We have to go get them."
"They'll never get here in time. That airplane's ready to taxi." Thatcher scanned the area. "You go for the MP's."
"What about you, Michael?"
He gripped her shoulder and pointed. "There! That's what I need! "
Lydia saw a small utility tug. It was parked untended, and attached to the back was a trailer loaded with bombs.
"I don't understand!" Heinrich demanded as he was being hustled across the ramp. "This is a Russian airplane!"
Braun was prepared. "What did you expect, Karl? The Luftwaffe?" He smiled knowingly and spoke over the roar of two radial engines, "I told you — our new leaders are clever. It is a Russian aircraft, yes. We captured it years ago, and now it has turned quite useful." Braun let this sink in. "Can you imagine a better deception, Karl?"
Heinrich eased. "Yes… I see. It is a good idea. The pilots, they are German?"
"Of course. They speak a bit of Russian, just to be convincing. But both are SS men."
"All right, Rainer."
Kovalenko appeared in the aircraft's entry door and beckoned them with a wave. Braun didn't like how things were flowing. He grabbed Heinrich's elbow and stopped him twenty paces away.
"Stay here, Karl," Braun instructed. He pointed to the suitcase. "And hold on to that grip."
Braun walked quickly across to the airplane, leaving Heinrich and his priceless trove of information safely in the open. With the engines running, he nearly had to shout at Kovalenko. "Where is my money?"
"Here." Kovalenko slid a large briefcase into view.
"Give it to me now," Braun demanded.
Kovalenko shook his head. "First bring the scientist and his papers."
The two glared at one another. The sequence of the exchange had not been discussed — not this far. Braun was now improvising. Kovalenko pulled the briefcase back slightly from the door and opened it. Stacks of fifty dollar bills bulged inside. He then snapped it shut. "Bring Wespe. Once he is aboard, you can have it."
"How will you keep him aboard after I leave?"
Kovalenko twisted just enough to show a gun tucked amateurishly into the back of his waistband. Braun recognized it as a Tokarev Tula. He hesitated. Would the Russian use the gun against him? No, he decided. Otherwise he would not have shown it. In any event, Braun was confident he could find a way past Kovalenko. And off of this infernal island. He turned and jogged toward Heinrich.
"All right, Karl," Braun announced, "its time to go!"
Heinrich cradled the case as if holding a newborn child. He began to follow across the crushed coral. But when Braun reached the airplane and looked back, Heinrich had stopped again.
"Come on!" Braun shouted.
Suddenly, Kovalenko rushed down the stairs and toward Heinrich.
Braun took the chance. He reached into the airplane and pulled the briefcase closer. When he unlatched the locks, an array of fifty dollar bills stared up at him. He felt an instant of elation — but it was short-lived. He raked a stack of bills with his thumb, then a second. Only the money on top was real, the rest carefully cut stacks of paper. Furious, he turned.
Kovalenko was at Heinrichs elbow, ushering him to the airplane. Braun heard Heinrich ask, "Where is our first stop?" The words were in German.
Kovalenko reacted badly. He froze, a bewildered expression on his face.
The little German scientist suddenly understood. With a speed that surprised Braun, Heinrich swung his suitcase into Kovalenko's ribcage. The Russian doubled over, and Heinrich pried the gun from his belt. Kovalenko recovered enough to snatch at the weapon, but Heinrich was smart — using both hands, he kept the gun close to his chest, operating from a position of strength. A single shot rang out, and Kovalenko crumpled to the ground.
Braun was already moving. He pulled the worthless briefcase to his chest, using it as a shield, and rushed Heinrich. The German got off one shot, but it was absorbed by the thick wads of paper in the briefcase. Braun battered into Heinrich, locking onto his gun hand as they both went sprawling.