Thunder Point Page 2

  He switched off his lights and paused. It seemed a poor sort of place, a couple of hangars, three huts and a rickety excuse for a control tower, but there was light streaming out from one of the hangars and from the windows of the end hut. He moved into neutral, eased off the brake and let the Mercedes run down the hill silently, coming to a halt on the far side of the runway from the hangars. He sat there thinking about things for a moment, then took a Walther PPK and black leather gloves from the attaché case on the seat next to him. He checked the Walther, slipped it into his waistband at the rear, then pulled on the gloves as he started across the runway in the rain.

  The hangar was old and smelled of damp as if not used in years, but the airplane that stood there in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna 441 Conquest with twin turboprop engines. A mechanic in overalls had the cowling on the port engine open and stood on a ladder working on it. The cabin door was open, the stairs down and two men loaded boxes inside.

  As they emerged, one of them called in German, “We’re finished, Doctor Wegner.”

  A bearded man emerged from the small office in one corner of the hangar. He wore a hunting jacket, the fur collar turned up against the cold.

  “All right, you can go.” As they walked away he said to the mechanic, “Any problems, Tomic?”

  “No big deal, Herr Doctor, just fine-tuning.”

  “Which won’t mean a thing unless this damn man Dillon turns up.” As Wegner turned, a young man came in, the woollen cap and reefer coat he wore beaded with rain.

  “He’ll be here,” Wegner told him. “I was told he could never resist a challenge, this one.”

  “A mercenary,” the young man said. “That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who kills people for money.”

  “There are children dying over there,” Wegner said, “and they need what’s on that plane. To achieve that I’d deal with the Devil himself.”

  “Which you’ll probably have to.”

  “Not kind,” Dillon called in excellent German. “Not kind at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness at the end of the hangar.

  The young man put a hand in his pocket and Dillon’s Walther appeared fast. “Plain view, son, plain view.”

  Dillon walked forward, swung the young man round and extracted a Mauser from his right-hand pocket. “Would you look at that now? You can’t trust a soul these days.”

  Wegner said in English, “Mr. Dillon? Mr. Sean Dillon?”

  “So they tell me.” Dillon slipped the Mauser into his hip pocket, took out his silver case one-handed, still holding the Walther, and managed to extract a cigarette. “And who might you be, me old son?” His speech had the hard, distinctive edge to it that was found only in Ulster and not in the Republic of Ireland.

  “I am Dr. Hans Wegner of International Drug Relief, and this is Klaus Schmidt from our office in Vienna. He arranged the plane for us.”

  “Did he now? That’s something to be said in his favor.” Dillon took the Mauser from his hip pocket and handed it back. “Doing good is all very fine, but playing with guns when you don’t know how is a mug’s game.”

  The young man flushed deeply, took the Mauser and put it in his pocket, and Wegner said mildly, “Herr Schmidt has made the run by road twice with medical supplies.”

  “Then why not this time?” Dillon asked, slipping the Walther back in his waistband.

  “Because that part of Croatia is disputed territory now,” Schmidt said. “There’s heavy fighting between Serbs and Moslems and Croats.”

  “I see,” Dillon said. “So I’m to manage by air what you can’t by road?”

  “Mr. Dillon, it’s a hundred and twenty miles to Sabac from here and the airstrip is still open. Believe it or not, but the phone system still works quite well over there. I’m given to understand that this plane is capable of more than three hundred miles an hour. That means you could be there in twenty minutes or so.”

  Dillon laughed out loud. “Would you listen to the man? It’s plain to see you don’t know the first thing about flying a plane.” He saw that the mechanic high on his ladder was smiling. “Ah, so you speak English, old son.”

  “A little.”

  “Tomic is a Croatian,” Dr. Wegner said.

  Dillon looked up. “What do you think?”

  Tomic said, “I was in the airforce for seven years. I know Sabac. It’s an emergency strip, but a sound asphalt runway.”

  “And the flight?”

  “Well, if you’re just some private pilot out here to do a bit of good in this wicked world you won’t last twenty miles.”

  Dillon said softly, “Let’s just say I’ve seldom done a good thing in my life and I’m not that kind of pilot. What’s the terrain like?”

  “Mountainous in parts, heavily forested, and the weather forecast stinks, I checked it myself earlier, but it’s not only that, it’s the airforce, they still patrol the area regularly.”

  “Mig fighters?” Dillon asked.

  “That’s right.” Tomic slapped the wing of the Conquest with one hand. “A nice airplane, but no match for a Mig.” He shook his head. “But maybe you’ve got a death wish.”

  “That’s enough, Tomic,” Wegner said angrily.

  “Oh, it’s been said before.” Dillon laughed. “But let’s get on. I’d better look at the charts.”

  As they moved toward the office Wegner said, “Our people in Vienna did make it plain. Your services are purely voluntary. We need all the money we can raise for the drugs and medical supplies.”

  “Understood,” Dillon said.

  They went into the office where a number of charts were spread across the desk. Dillon started to examine them.

  “When would you leave?” Wegner asked.

  “Just before dawn,” Dillon told him. “Best time of all and least active. I hope the rain keeps up.”

  Schmidt, genuinely curious, said, “Why would you do this? I don’t understand. A man like you.” He seemed suddenly awkward. “I mean, we know something of your background.”

  “Do you now?” Dillon said. “Well, as the good doctor said, I find it hard to resist a challenge.”

  “And for this you would risk your life?”

  “Ah, sure and I was forgetting.” Dillon looked up and smiled and an astonishing change came to his face, nothing but warmth and great charm there. “I should also mention that I’m the last of the world’s great adventurers. Now leave me be like a good lad and let me see where I’m going.”

  He leaned over the charts and started to examine them intently.

  Just before five the rain was as relentless as ever, the darkness as impenetrable, as Dillon stood in the entrance of the hangar and peered out. Wegner and Schmidt approached him.

  The older man said, “Can you really take off in weather like this?”

  “The problem is landing, not taking off.” Dillon called to Tomic, “How are things?”

  Tomic emerged from the cabin, jumped to the ground and came toward them wiping his hands on a rag. “Everything in perfect working order.”

  Dillon offered him a cigarette and glanced out. “And this?”

  Tomic peered up into the darkness. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and you’ll find ground mist over there, especially over the forest, mark my words.”

  “Ah, well, better get on with it as the thief said to the hangman.” Dillon crossed to the Conquest.

  He went up the steps and examined the interior. All the seats had been removed and it was stacked with long, olive-green boxes. Each one was stenciled in English: Royal Army Medical Corps.

  Schmidt, who had joined him, said, “As you can see, we get our supplies from unusual sources.”

  “You can say that again. What’s in these?”

  “See for yourself.” Schmidt unclipped the nearest one, removed a sheet of oiled paper to reveal box after box of morphine ampoules. “Over there, Mr. Dillon, they sometimes have to hold children down when they operate on them because of the lack
of any kind of anesthetic. These prove a highly satisfactory substitute.”

  “Point taken,” Dillon said. “Now close it up and I’ll get moving.”

  Schmidt did as he was told, then jumped to the ground. As Dillon pulled up the steps Wegner said, “God go with you, Mr. Dillon.”

  “There’s always that chance,” Dillon said. “It’s probably the first time I’ve done anything he’d approve of,” and he closed the door and clamped it in place.

  He settled into the left-hand pilot’s seat, fired the port engine and after that the starboard. The chart was next to him on the other seat, but he had already pretty well committed it to memory. He paused on the apron outside the hangar, rain streaming from his windscreen, did a thorough cockpit check, then strapped in and taxied to the end of the runway, turning into the wind. He glanced across to the three men standing in the hangar entrance, raised a thumb, then started forward, his engine roar deepening as he boosted power. Within a second or two he had disappeared, the sound of the engines already fading.

  Wegner ran a hand over his face. “God, but I’m tired.” He turned to Tomic. “Has he a chance?”

  Tomic shrugged. “Quite a man, that one. Who knows?”

  Schmidt said, “Let’s get some coffee. We’re going to have a long wait.”

  Tomic said, “I’ll join you in a minute. I just want to clear my tools away.”

  They crossed toward the end hut. He watched them go, waited until they’d gone inside before turning and swiftly crossing to the office. He picked up the telephone and dialed a lengthy series of numbers. As the good doctor had said, the telephone system still worked surprisingly well over there.

  When a voice answered he spoke in Serbo-Croatian. “This is Tomic, get me Major Branko.”

  There was an instant response. “Branko here.”

  “Tomic. I’m at the airfield at Fehring and I’ve got traffic for you. Cessna Conquest just left, destination Sabac. Here is his radio frequency.”

  “Is the pilot anyone we know?”

  “Name of Dillon – Sean Dillon. Irish, I believe. Small man, very fair hair, late thirties I’d say. Doesn’t look much. Nice smile, but the eyes tell a different story.”

  “I’ll have him checked out through Central Intelligence, but you’ve done well, Tomic. We’ll give him a warm welcome.”

  The phone clicked and Tomic replaced the receiver. He took out a packet of the vile Macedonian cigarettes he affected and lit one. Pity about Dillon. He’d rather liked the Irishman, but that was life and he started to put his tools away methodically.

  And Dillon was already in trouble, not only thick cloud and the constant driving rain, but even at a thousand feet a swirling mist that gave only an intermittent view of pine forest below.

  “And what in the hell are you doing here, old son?” he asked softly. “What are you trying to prove?”

  He got a cigarette out of his case, lit it and a voice spoke in his earphones in heavily accented English. “Good morning, Mr. Dillon, welcome to Yugoslavia.”

  The plane took station to starboard not too far away, the red stars on its fuselage clear enough, a Mig 21, the old Fishbed, probably the Soviet jet most widely distributed to its allies. Outdated now, but not as far as Dillon was concerned.

  The Mig pilot spoke again. “Course one-two-four, Mr. Dillon. We’ll come to a rather picturesque castle at the edge of the forest, Kivo it’s called, intelligence headquarters for this area. There’s an airstrip there and they’re expecting you. They might even arrange a full English breakfast.”

  “Irish,” Dillon said cheerfully. “A full Irish breakfast, and who am I to refuse an offer like that? One-two-four it is.”

  He turned onto the new course, climbing to two thousand feet as the weather cleared a little, whistling softly to himself. A Serbian prison did not commend itself, not if the stories reaching Western Europe were even partly true, but in the circumstances, he didn’t seem to have any choice and then, a couple of miles away on the edge of the forest beside a river he saw Kivo, a fairytale castle of towers and battlements surrounded by a moat, the airstrip clear beside it.

  “What do you think?” the Mig pilot asked. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  “Straight out of a story by the Brothers Grimm,” Dillon answered. “All we need is the ogre.”

  “Oh, we have that too, Mr. Dillon. Now put down nice and easy and I’ll say goodbye.”

  Dillon looked down into the interior of the castle, noticed soldiers moving toward the edge of the airstrip preceded by a jeep and sighed. He said into his mike, “I’d like to say it’s been a good life, but then there are those difficult days, like this morning for instance. I mean, why did I even get out of bed?”

  He heaved the control column right back and boosted power, climbing fast, and the Mig pilot reacted angrily. “Dillon, do as you’re told or I’ll blast you out of the sky.”

  Dillon ignored him, leveling out at five thousand, searching the sky for any sign, and the Mig, already on his tail, came up behind and fired. The Conquest staggered as cannon shell tore through both wings.

  “Dillon – don’t be a fool!” the pilot cried.

  “Ah, but then I always was.”

  Dillon went down fast, leveling at two thousand feet over the edge of the forest, aware of vehicles moving from the direction of the castle. The Mig came in again firing his machine guns now and the Conquest’s windscreen disintegrated, wind and rain roaring in. Dillon sat there, hands firm on the control column, blood on his face from a glass splinter.

  “Now then,” he said into his mike. “Let’s see how good you are.”

  He dropped the nose and went straight down, the pine forest waiting for him below, and the Mig went after him, firing again. The Conquest bucked, the port engine dying as Dillon leveled out at four hundred feet, and behind him the Mig, no time to pull out at the speed it was doing, plowed into the forest and fireballed.

  Dillon, trimming as best he could for flying on one engine, lost power and dropped lower. There was a clearing up ahead and to his left. He tried to bank toward it, was already losing height as he clipped the tops of the pine trees. He cut power instantly and braced himself for the crash. In the end, it was the pine trees which saved him, retarding his progress so much that by the time he hit the clearing for a belly landing, he wasn’t actually going all that fast.

  The Conquest bounced twice, and came to a shuddering halt. Dillon released his straps, scrambled out of his seat and had the door open in an instant. He was out headfirst, rolling over in the rain, and on his feet and running, his right ankle twisting so that he fell on his face again. He scrambled up and limped away as fast as he could, but the Conquest didn’t burst into flame, it simply crouched there in the rain as if tired.

  There was thick black smoke above the trees from the burning Mig and then soldiers appeared on the other side of the clearing. A jeep moved out of the trees behind them, top down, and Dillon could see an officer standing up in it wearing a winter campaign coat, Russian-style, with a fur collar. More soldiers appeared, some of them with Dobermans, all barking loudly and straining against their leashes.

  It was enough. Dillon turned to hobble into the trees and his leg gave out on him. A voice on a loudhailer called in English, “Oh, come now, Mr. Dillon, be sensible, you don’t want me to set the dogs on you.”

  Dillon paused, balanced on one foot, then he turned and hobbled to the nearest tree and leaned against it. He took a cigarette from his silver case, the last one, and lit it. The smoke tasted good as it bit at the back of his throat and he waited for them.

  They stood in a semicircle, soldiers in baggy tunics, guns covering him, the dogs howling against being restrained. The jeep rolled to a halt and the officer, a Major from his shoulder boards, stood up and looked down at him, a good-looking man of about thirty with a dark, saturnine face.

  “So, Mr. Dillon, you made it in one piece,” he said in faultless Public School English. “I congratulate you. My name, by the w
ay, is Branko – John Branko. My mother was English, is, I should say. Lives in Hampstead.”

  “Is that a fact.” Dillon smiled. “A desperate bunch of rascals you’ve got here, Major, but Cead míle fáilte anyway.”

  “And what would that mean, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Oh, that’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes.”

  “What a charming sentiment.” Branko turned and spoke in Serbo-Croatian to the large, brutal-looking Sergeant who sat behind him clutching an AK assault rifle. The Sergeant smiled, jumped to the ground and advanced on Dillon.

  Major Branko said, “Allow me to introduce you to my Sergeant Zekan. I’ve just told him to offer you a hundred thousand welcomes to Yugoslavia, or Serbia as we prefer to say now.”

  Dillon knew what was coming, but there wasn’t a thing he could do. The butt of the AK caught him in the left side, driving the wind from him as he keeled over. The Sergeant lifted a knee in his face. The last thing Dillon remembered was the dogs barking, the laughter, and then there was only darkness.

  When Sergeant Zekan took Dillon along the corridor, someone screamed in the distance and there was the sound of heavy blows. Dillon hesitated but the Sergeant showed no emotion, simply put a hand between the Irishman’s shoulder blades and pushed him toward a flight of stone steps and urged him up. There was an oaken door at the top banded with iron. Zekan opened it and pushed him through.

  The room inside was oak beamed with granite walls, tapestries hanging here and there. A log fire burned in an open hearth and two of the Dobermans sprawled in front of it. Branko sat behind a large desk reading a file and drinking from a crystal glass, a bottle in an ice bucket beside him. He glanced up and smiled, then took the bottle from the ice bucket and filled another glass.