“His men are making progress, but it’s slow. Too slow. The game’s still yours.”
“I’ve got a feeling the fun’s just beginning.”
Chapter 17
Deveraux’s landing field in Gournay was hardly an official strip. In fact, no one outside of a necessary few even knew it was still in limited operation. It had been constructed by French Resistance troops at the peak of World War II as a means of smuggling people out of and weapons into France. It had served brilliantly back then and continued to serve Deveraux as one of ten airfields he kept active in continental France.
McCracken arrived by rental car in the bright chill of ten-thirty A.M. to find the transport plane already warming its engines.
“Mr. McCracken?” a man with a French submachine gun said, approaching him.
“Greetings from Paris.”
“Mr. Deveraux contacted us. You are expected. I will make arrangements to have your car driven back to your hotel. Mr. Deveraux insists that no evidence exist of your being here.”
Blaine closed the car door behind him.
“My name is André,” the man, who looked to be still in his twenties, told him. “Mr. Deveraux has requested that I be at your service. Everything is arranged as your instructions indicated. We had to improvise, but I think you’ll find the results most satisfactory. Follow me.”
The whirl of the propellers stung Blaine’s ears as he followed André in a trot toward the large plane’s cargo bay. They climbed up a ramp into a damp, dark world broken by the half-light cast by irregularly placed work lamps.
“Over here, Mr. McCracken.”
André led him toward a wooden crate in the far left corner, approximately the same size and shape as all the others.
“A pair of heavy machine guns are inside here,” André explained, “with a compartment constructed between them for you to conceal yourself in upon reaching the island. A section of the crate has been cut out and loosely refitted, so moderate pressure applied by you from the inside will pop it out to secure your freedom.” André’s eyes became cautious. “If the crate is dropped or rammed, your escape hatch might be prematurely discovered. It was the best we could come up with on such short notice.”
“I understand.”
“In any event, it will not be necessary for you to take refuge in the crate until the crew informs you they are beginning their descent. At that point they will help you lift one of the heavy machine guns aside temporarily and remove one of the false separators so you can slip inside. Any questions so far?”
“Is this crate first class or tourist?”
André smiled. “Whatever you prefer. Just don’t expect any pretty stewardesses. Will you be needing a handgun?”
Blaine nodded. “Something small and reliable. Heckler and Koch, if you can manage it.”
With a thin smile André produced a sleek pistol from his pocket. “Mr. Deveraux anticipated your request,” he said, handing over a Heckler and Koch P-9.
“Perfect,” Blaine said as he took it.
“The flight will last approximately nine hours if winds are favorable. The crew will do its utmost to keep you as comfortable as possible.”
Blaine stowed the pistol in the pocket of his jacket and thanked André. He had dressed casually for the trip in sport shirt, slacks, and windbreaker, a wardrobe right for the Caribbean but not for France in December. His flesh stung with cold. The rest of his baggage was being forwarded to a Gap depot in the States, where he would retrieve it once he returned.
His return from San Melas was something he hadn’t considered yet. He had looked far enough into the future only to hope that his crate was placed somewhere he might manage an unobstructed entry from into Krayman’s base. There was always a way to escape, he told himself, and he had never failed to find it before. Improvisation was the key, the ability to create something out of nothing.
Even though he had managed six uninterrupted hours of slumber the night before, Blaine drifted off to sleep soon after takeoff and the surprisingly smooth flight did little to jar him. He came awake periodically and drifted off again until he awoke and realized the big plane was starting its descent.
“I’m afraid it’s time to become a stowaway, sir,” said the first officer, emerging from the cockpit.
Blaine downed a mug of coffee and a roll first and then headed for the crate.
“It’s eighty-five degrees and sunny outside,” the first officer reported. “Great tanning weather.”
“What about the time?”
“Four-thirty in the afternoon. Four hours until sunset.”
“Thanks,” Blaine told him, and together they moved toward the crate in the back of the cargo hold.
Under ten minutes later McCracken was settled between two heavy machine guns in his private tomb. The darkness was total and there was no way to be comfortable. Blaine stretched his limbs as best he could, fighting against spasm by rhythmically flexing his arms and legs. He felt he knew what it would be like now to be buried alive, and the jolts his body absorbed as the plane landed made matters worse. His head took a hefty measure of the blows, and he found himself powerless to shift his frame to a position that could spare any single part of him the pounding. He felt the brakes being applied, heard them squeak, and rejoiced as the plane taxied to a halt.
The most uncomfortable part of his journey, he hoped, was over.
Blaine heard the heavy cargo doors being opened and ramps wheeled into place. Next he heard footsteps, muffled and disjointed. Garbled orders were shouted. Each minute the footsteps and voices drew closer to his crate.
Finally he sensed motion. He felt his crate being dragged across the floor. There was a hard shove from the rear and a thud as it reached the ramp and began its slide down. At ground level impact with another crate made it sway and threatened to tip it over. Blaine grasped his pistol in the darkness. If he was exposed now, he meant to make a fight of it. But the crate came to a halt with no damage done. He heard trucks being backed up and forklifts motoring close by.
The heat inside the crate was stifling. He felt more cramped than ever and longed for more light to filter between the hairline cracks in the crate. His eyes would be his worst enemy if they were suddenly exposed to the blinding Caribbean sun. He would be unable to see and unable to fight. All he could do was hope it didn’t come to that.
McCracken was shaken hard against the side of the crate as it was hoisted by forklift into the back of a truck. The meager light vanished, and darkness was total again. The minutes grew into an hour as the loading process continued. Blaine breathed his own sweat. The voices continued around him, sometimes laughing. A rumble sounded and he quickly realized it was the transport readying to lift off. There was another rumble, the engine of the truck he was stored in, and then Blaine was conscious of motion, slow at first but gradually picking up.
The road to the truck’s destination was not smooth. Blaine was tossed against the crate’s sides, doing the best he could to cushion the blows with his hands. He was jerked every way imaginable.
Blaine checked the luminous dial of his watch. Five forty-five, which left him three good hours of light to find what he was looking for. Fifteen minutes later the trucks came to a halt, the engines turned off, and the unloading process begun. McCracken could sense he was in a spacious building with a cool breeze soothing him from between the cracks of the crate. The unloading process went on and on. Blaine had only his watch to distract him from the monotony of his confinement. It wasn’t until six-thirty that the voices disappeared and a heavy door slammed closed. Blaine waited another ten minutes just to be sure, then drew his feet up to his chest and aimed them for a thrust at the crate’s removable panel. He kicked out hard.