cellar and prayed to their gods that the Germans wouldn't stumble over
them. And whenever he had the chance, my agent went to work questioning
his new found Russian-friend, but, sorry to say, he didn't even get to
first base. The instant those Germans showed up Nikolsk closed up like a
clam. Matter of fact, my agent says that he was practically blue with
fear most of the time. He seemed to think that the Gestapo boys were
after him."
"Were they?" Dawson asked quietly as the other paused.
Colonel Welsh shrugged and dragged down the corners of his mouth.
"Yes and no," he said. "We don't know anything for certain. The next day
Nikolsk left the cellar and didn't return. My agent waited a day longer,
and then decided that it was time for him to be moving. He had some
tattered peasant clothing that Nikolsk had given him, and he slipped out
at night and continued his journey northward. In two days he was on the
Russian side of the war. And as luck would have it, he bumped into a
tank officer he knew. The rest was easy. A plane took my agent to
Moscow. And after a day in Moscow he came on down here to London and
reported to me. That was last night. When I heard his story I got in
touch with the Air Vice-Marshal here. We went into a huddle, and--well,
that brings us up to the present moment."
A hundred thousand questions had been leaping around in Dave Dawson's
brain. So when the Colonel stopped talking he got the first one out as
soon as he could.
"What about your Gestapo hunch, sir?" he asked. "Just how do you mean
they've entered the picture? Only because of the Tobolsk business?"
The American Intelligence chief gave an emphatic shake of his head.
"No, not that alone," he said. "My agent stated that he was dead certain
that he had been followed in Moscow. And that he is being followed right
here in London. True, he's taken all kinds of measures to trip up
whoever has been shadowing him. But the lad seems to be very clever. My
agent can smell him, you might say. He can even feel eyes watching him.
But he hasn't yet been able to get a look at this so-called shadow of
his. And you can add to that, sir, eh?"
As Colonel Welsh spoke the last he turned and nodded at Air Vice-Marshal
Leman. The R.A.F. officer nodded gravely, and the corners of his mouth
tightened slightly.
"Quite!" he grunted, and looked at the two youthful air aces. "The
blasted thing is the most incredible mess I've ever bumped up against.
Truly fantastic. You'll be sure I've gone balmy when you hear this, but
it is the absolute truth. Agent Jones has also been followed ever since
he returned! What's more, his flat over on Regent Street has been
entered and thoroughly searched at least twice, to his knowledge. And
once--though he can't say for sure--a half-hearted attempt to kidnap him
was made. At least, he was grabbed during a blackout, and he received a
blow on the head that didn't quite stun him. Of course, it might just
have been one of those countless blackout accidents. He may have bumped
into a couple of skitterish chaps, and they may have got a little bit
out of hand. When the blow didn't stun him, and he wrenched himself
free, the two other chaps had disappeared. So there's no way of telling
whether it was an accident or the real thing."
"But it must have been an accident!" Dawson spoke up with a frown. "And
after what Jones went through, maybe his imagination is playing him
tricks. I mean, maybe he just thinks that he's being followed, and
thinks that his place was searched. I--"
Dawson cut himself off short, and suddenly felt like kicking himself. A
funny look had leaped into Air Vice-Marshal Leman's eyes. And there was
also a funny expression on Colonel Welsh's face. Dawson had the instant
belief that he had spoken out of turn and put his foot into it.
"You don't agree, sir?" he asked the R.A.F. officer lamely.
The funny light faded from the other's eyes, and he shook his head.
"No, I don't agree; Dawson," he said quietly. "True, I realize that it
seems silly to think that the Gestapo got wind of Agent Jones, or
Nikolsk, or Colonel Welsh's agent. The whole thing covers a period of
about three years, but--well, I have to give credit to Himmler's gang of
murderers for one thing, at least. They never forget anything. And they
never give up the hunt. How they found out about Ivan Nikolsk, and his
connection with Agent Jones, and his connection with the Colonel's
agent, are three things we'll probably never learn. But the fact remains
that the Gestapo has pulled many things out of thin air in times gone
by. It is one of the smoothest working and one of the cleverest
organizations in the history of man. So we would be plain blasted fools
to brush any thought aside as being impossible of accomplishment. No,
far better for us to assume that the Gestapo has wind of what's up, and
to make our own plans accordingly."
"Check and double check on that, sir," Dawson said respectfully. "And
with your permission, I'd like to withdraw that crazy remark I just
made."
"Granted at once, Dawson," the Air Vice-Marshal said with a pleasant
smile. "Matter of fact, I really don't blame you for making it. Would
have done so myself, if I didn't know all the facts."
A couple of minutes of silence settled over the room, and then it became
too much for Freddy Farmer. He inched forward on the edge of his chair,
and looked straight at the Air Vice-Marshal.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but may I ask why Dawson and I were ordered
to report to you? I mean, is there something we can do to help
straighten out the mess? And, if so, I can say for both of us that we're
only too eager to try anything."
"Old fire eater Farmer," Dawson said with a chuckle. Then, glancing at
the Air Vice-Marshal, he added, "He took the words out of my mouth, sir.
I've been wanting to ask that question ever since we came in here."
The Chief of R.A.F. Intelligence didn't reply at once. He looked over at
Colonel Welsh, and a special kind of look seemed to pass between them.
Then finally, the American officer spoke.
"Yes, we had good reason to send for you two," he said. "And there is a
way that you can help--I hope."
"Those last two words don't sound so good, sir," Dawson spoke up with a
grin. "You mean, there's nothing definite?"
"No, I don't mean that," the Colonel replied. "I mean--"
The senior officer paused, and scowled heavily as though he were
reluctant to let the rest come off his lips.
"No, I don't mean that," he repeated presently. "You two can help us,
and more than you realize at the moment. However--well, to give it to
you straight, it might turn out to be a dirty trick on both of you. Your
war service might suddenly end with a bang, or worse."
Dawson swallowed hard at that remark, but managed to keep a grin on his
lips.
"We've flirted with that kind of a situation a couple of times before,
sir," he said quietly. "So maybe Lady Luck wouldn't leave us cold all of
a sudden."
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "At least, it wouldn't be anything new
and novel to us, if you know what I mean?"
"I do," Colonel Welsh said with a chuckle. "But it so happens that this
would be a new and novel item. That is, unless you've acted as decoys of
the real thing in the past?"
"Huh, decoys?" Dawson gulped. "How's that again, sir?"
Colonel Welsh leaned forward and rested his forearms on the end of the
desk.
"Obviously," he said, "the thing we want to do, and as soon as we can,
is to get Ivan Nikolsk and Agent Jones together. Though Nikolsk has
disappeared for the moment, we feel very strongly that he is not very
far from Tobolsk. As my agent stated, his one and only aim in life was
to meet his friend, or Agent Jones, at Tobolsk. Therefore there is good
reason to believe the Gestapo simply scared him into some other place of
hiding, and not too far away. So if Agent Jones should go to Tobolsk,
the chances are that he would meet up with Ivan Nikolsk sooner or
later. My agent and Agent Jones have checked, and the appearance of
Nikolsk hasn't changed much. I mean that Agent Jones is certain that he
would recognize him at once. And he is also certain that he can fully
establish his identity to Nikolsk."
"And our job is to fly Agent Jones to Tobolsk, and land him safely, eh,
sir?" Freddy Farmer spoke up excitedly.
"No, definitely not," Colonel Welsh replied evenly. "Your job will be to
take the Gestapo boys off the necks of Agent Jones, and get them all
wrapped up in the task of chasing you!"
CHAPTER SIX
_Eagles for Moscow_
Had Colonel Welsh calmly pulled out an automatic and fired the whole
clip through the ceiling of Room Twelve Hundred, Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer wouldn't have been half so surprised as they were right at the
moment. Like two sitting statues of stone, they froze motionless, and
gaped wide-eyed at the Colonel. A billion questions spun around in their
brains, but for several seconds neither could have made his lips speak
words; not for a million dollars in cold cash.
In time, though, Dawson succeeded in getting his tongue back into
working order.
"Sweet tripe!" he exploded. "That is a new one for us! Decoys for the
Gestapo rats! Gosh!"
"It doesn't meet with your approval, Dawson?" Air Vice-Marshal Leman put
the question with a slight frown.
"Sure, one hundred per cent, sir," Dave came right back at him quickly.
"But it was so sudden like--well, it's sort of got me still swinging at
thin air. One right on the outside corner that I didn't even see the
pitcher let fly."
"Eh, what?" the senior R.A.F. officer grunted with a blank look on his
face.
"Another American expression, sir," Colonel Welsh explained immediately.
"Dawson means I took the wind out of his sails. Caught him flat-footed
off the bag, you might say."
"Oh, yes, quite!" the English officer murmured, but didn't exactly lose
his blank look. "Well, I'm glad that you approve, because we are
definitely counting on you two for help. If this bit of a mission is
completely successful, there's no telling how much it may change the
course of the war in our favor, you know."
"If it can be done, we'll both do our best to hold up our end, sir,"
Freddy Farmer murmured.
"And you can say that again for me," Dawson added his bit. Then, turning
to Colonel Welsh, he asked, "What's the plan, sir? Or shouldn't I ask
that now?"
"You should, and I'll answer it," the American Intelligence chief
replied. "Here is the picture as we've doped it out. You two, whether
you admit it or not, are not exactly unknown to the Gestapo. Ten to one
the Gestapo knows that you are here in London. In fact, it's almost an
even money bet that Gestapo agents in London know that you are here in
this office right now."
"Gosh!" Freddy Farmer breathed softly. "That doesn't give a chap a very
pleasant feeling. But go on, sir."
"What I'm working up to is this," the Colonel continued. "If the Gestapo
has wind of the Tobolsk business, and I'll bet a year's pay that they
have, they are going to be just a bit more excited to learn that you two
have been brought into the picture. And it is our plan to bring you into
the picture right out in broad daylight, so to speak. In other words,
the Air Vice-Marshal here, you two, my agent, and Agent Jones and myself
are going to have lunch as Simpson's at the Savoy Hotel this noon. Then
we are all coming back here for a short while. Tonight you two will
travel to Aberdeen in Scotland. There you will board a bomber that will
fly you direct to Moscow. When you reach Moscow the Soviet Intelligence
will take over. You will disappear from sight, and you will remain out
of sight for a bit. Then at the right time you two and a Russian
Intelligence officer, who knows every square inch of the Tobolsk area,
will take off by plane and head down the front to the village of Urbakh,
which is on the Russian side of the front."
The Colonel paused a moment to catch his breath and shift his weight on
the chair.
"Meantime," he presently continued, "Agent Jones will also be making a
little journey. You see, we hope that you two will be able to draw the
Gestapo away from Jones. He will be sneaked out of England by air, and
go to Gibraltar, and on to Alexandria, and up through Iraq, and Iran,
and up through the Caucasus to the village of Urbakh. There he will meet
your party coming down from Moscow, and--well, from that point on, our
plan is only general. You, of course, will have to make your own plans
from hour to hour, according to how the situation shapes up. The goal,
of course, is for all of you to get over into Tobolsk behind the Nazi
lines and contact Ivan Nikolsk, and learn what he has to say, in the
event you can't get him out of there by air."
"Zowie!" Dawson breathed aloud without thinking. "Just like that, huh?
I--Sorry, sir."
Colonel Welsh gave a little wave of his hand to signify that Dawson's
comment was taken in the right spirit. In fact, he grinned, and nodded
his head vigorously.
"Zowie is right!" he echoed. "I'll admit that the assignment appears so
screwy, and dizzy, that a man would be a fool even to give a thought to
its turning out even partially successfully. But on the other hand,
that's something in our favor in a way. It's such a screwy idea that
maybe even the Gestapo wouldn't believe we'd try to pull it off. You
see, our hope is that they'll think that you're going to Moscow to turn
over valuable information to Soviet Intelligence. In short--well, to be
very blunt and brutal, it is our hope that the Gestapo will fall all
over themselves trying to _stop you two from reaching Moscow_, and in
their efforts will forget all about Agent Jones."
"Well, I wish them luck, I don't think!" Dawson said more cheerfully
than he felt. "At any rate, there should be some fun in beating those
murdering bums to the punch. Check, Freddy?"
"Quite!" the English-born air ace managed to get out. "I've always
wanted to visit Moscow, too."
"Well, our prayers will be that you'll have that opportunity," Colonel
Welsh said almost fervently. "If you can shake them off at Moscow, even
if they suddenly realize they've been very nicely duped, and guess the
real truth, we hope there'll not be enough time for them to do anything
about it."
"There's one thing I don't quite catch, sir," Dawson said after a couple
of minutes of general silence. "The trip over the Nazi front to Tobolsk.
There'll be four of us in the party, and, we sincerely hope, five of us
coming out. That's quite a crowd to be charging about behind the German
lines, to my way of thinking."
"I agree with you in principle," the American Intelligence chief
replied. "But this is one of those occasions where we're banking on the
idea of safety in numbers. In the first place, there must be someone
along who knows that area like the palm of his hand. That's where the
Russian Intelligence officer will come in. He'll know the best place to
land, and where to hide the aircraft from prying Nazi eyes. Secondly,
there has to be the man to contact Nikolsk. That's Agent Jones, of
course. Thirdly, or it should be secondly, Nikolsk will have to be
found, and that's where the Russian Intelligence officer will come in
handy again. He'll be able to hunt around while the rest of you lie
doggo and wait. And lastly, there must be a pilot to fly the plane in,
and to fly it out again. That's where you two come in. Double insurance,
if you get what I mean?"
"I get it, sir," Dawson said grimly. "You hope that both Freddy and I
will fly in, but there _must_ be one of us left to fly the ship out,
eh?"
"I mean just that," Colonel Welsh said, and there was no smile on his
thin face now. "One of you has _got_ to come back!"
"And _both_ of us will!" Dawson replied instantly.
"Definitely!" Freddy Farmer echoed, and seemed content to let it stay
like that.
"Well, that's the picture in more or less detail," Colonel Welsh said
with a glance at his watch. "We'll talk over some more of the details
again. Right now, though, I guess we've done enough talking. Let's break
up this meeting, and think things over. Maybe all of us will have things
to add later. That agreeable with you, Air Vice-Marshal?"
"Quite," the senior R.A.F. officer said with a nod. Then, glancing at
Dawson and Farmer, "All the luck in the world, you chaps. And I need not
tell you how I admire you both, and envy you, too, if you must know the
truth. I'd give every one of my stripes of rank to be able to go along
with you."
"Thank you, sir," Dawson said for them both. Then, with a pointed glance
at the decoration ribbons under the tunic wings of the Air Vice-Marshal,
he added, "And we'd like nothing better than to have you along, sir."
"See here, what about me?" Colonel Welsh snapped with a half grin
tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Am I supposed to be an old woman,
or something?"
"Just Dawson's nasty manners, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up with a
straight face. "He'll never learn. But I can assure you that his words
really included you both."
"And how, sir!" Dawson exclaimed hastily. "I figured you'd take that for
granted."
"Well, that's a little better!" Colonel Welsh growled in mock annoyance.
"But you'll never know, Dawson, how close you came to having to pay for
that lunch this noon. But of course, I understand, now. So I'll let you
off this time, and pay for it myself."
Dawson blew air through his lips, and went through the act of wiping
beads of sweat from his brow.
"Boy, did I come close to having to wash a mess of dishes!" he breathed.
"Because, if the truth must be known, I've got all of three shillings in
my pocket!"
"As though that were unusual!" Freddy Farmer shot at him. "Just name the
day when your pay wasn't all spent before you received it."
"Quite!" the Air Vice-Marshal broke into the conversation. "But that's a
well known R.A.F. habit, of course. Well, Gentlemen, shall we disband,
eh, and meet later at Simpson's, what?"
And nobody put forth any objections.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_You Can't See Death_
Like A black steel snake with a single yellow eye, the "Flying Scotsman"
went roaring northward over the steel rails that led to Aberdeen. In
their compartment, four cars back from the engine, Dave Dawson and
Freddy Farmer tried to lose their thoughts in the newspapers and
magazines they had bought before leaving London. But it was just about
as easy to do that as it is for a man to shave with an electric razor in
a thunder storm.
However, the two air aces stuck grimly to it for well onto two hours,
until finally Freddy reached the end of his string. He flung the
magazine across the compartment they shared alone, and heaved a long,
loud sigh.
"This is without question the balmiest war ever!" he proclaimed with
vocal emphasis.
Dawson looked up from his newspaper, nodded, and tossed it to one side.
"At any rate the screwiest one I ever fought in," he said. "So you
haven't been reading either, huh?"
"On the contrary, yes," Freddy replied. "But the same blasted paragraph
over and over again. I just can't seem to concentrate."
Dave glanced at the thick blinds that covered the windows and smiled
faintly.
"I guess nobody could blame you for that, considering," he murmured.
"We've been handed some sweet jobs, since we elected to take our own
personal swings in this war. And each time has seemed tougher than any
of the others. But this--this really is tops for cockeyed assignments.
Know something, Freddy?"
"What?"
"We stand _less_ chance of pulling this thing off than Mussolini stands
of being made King of England," Dave said.
"And don't I know it!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "I swear I don't know
who's craziest--Leman and Colonel Welsh for putting the proposition up
to us, or us for accepting it. Why, good grief, Dave--"
The English youth seemed unable to continue, so he just left the rest
hanging in mid-air, and scowled unseeingly at the single light in the
compartment ceiling.
Dave nodded, but didn't speak, because he was thinking the same thoughts
as his war pal. And none of them were happy thoughts. True, they would
go all out to pull off this miracle that had been dumped in their laps,
but he realized in his heart that their chances were thinner than tissue
paper. And every click of the coach wheels on the rail breaks added just
another exclamation mark to that thought.
To be truthful with himself, he had actually believed that their chances
of success were not much less than fifty-fifty. But that had been during
the luncheon at Simpson's. There he had met Agent Jones, and Colonel
Welsh's agent, who was introduced by the name of Brown. And something
about both men had touched a hidden note within him, and filled him with
a savage desire to succeed, and the partial belief that all might come
off well, at that. During the luncheon no word, of course, had been
spoken of the secret double mission about to be undertaken. But when
they had all returned to Air Vice-Marshal Leman's office, they had gone
into the whole thing in minute detail. At that time Freddy and he had
heard both stories of Tobolsk first hand. And though little was added
they had not already heard, hearing the stories from the lips of the men
who had gone through it all simply made Dave want more than ever to
deliver all the valuable information into the right hands. Maybe it was
to help repay Jones and Brown for what they had suffered. Or maybe it
was because he believed that success might shorten the war considerably.
He couldn't make up his mind which idea appealed to him most. He only
knew that, when Freddy and he had finally parted company with the
others, he wanted to come through with flying colors this time more than
he had ever wanted to in his entire war career.
"Say, Freddy!" Dave suddenly broke the silence. "In case I haven't asked
it yet, have you seen any Gestapo lads tagging along after us?"
The English youth shook his head and made a face.
"Not so much as a tiny peep at one," he replied. "And that gets me to
thinking. It would be a very bad joke on us if the blighters saw through
our little game, and left you and me strictly alone."
"A bad joke, yes," Dawson said with a grin. "But at least we'd be sure
to see Moscow. And that was the big attraction in this to you, wasn't
it? Or rather, isn't it?"
"Oh, quite!" Freddy snapped at him. "Just to see Moscow. _I'm_ really
not interested at all in this business about Ivan Nikolsk. But
seriously, though, I had a feeling that something might be tried before
the train left. But nothing was. Frankly, I'm a little worried."
"Hard-boiled Farmer," Dawson grinned. "Never happy unless he has a fight
on his hands. Stop worrying, pal. Something tells me you'll have plenty
of chance for action before they ring down the curtain on this job."
"Here's hoping," Farmer mumbled. "But I'm still a little worried.
Frankly, I never ask trouble, let alone danger, to come my way. But for
once I wish we'd see a bit of it. Such as some beggar coming barging
through that compartment door, there, with a gun in his hand."
"What a pretty thought!" Dawson grunted. "Do I get it that you've
suddenly got tired of living, pal? Or are you just a little more goofy
than usual?"
"Neither!" the other told him shortly. "I simply mean that if something
_did_ happen to me, I'd feel a little bit better."
"Why, then, just move your jaw this way, my friend," Dave said, and
lifted his clenched right fist. "Always glad to oblige an old, old
pal."
"The funniest man on earth, for fair!" Farmer snorted. "You'd make
millions on the stage--maybe. You nit-wit, don't you get the point?"
"What point, Master Mind?" Dawson shot back at him. "Do you mean
that--Oh, oh, I get it. If something happened to us, that would mean
that our unseen Gestapo boys were biting at the bait, huh?"
"Splendid!" Freddy Farmer cried in mock joy. "I always knew that that
brain of yours would come up with the right answer at least once during
your life. Quite! That's exactly what I mean. I wish something would
happen that was connected with us. It would certainly make me feel
better."
"Well, maybe something will after we get off this train," Dawson said,
and stifled a tiny yawn. "Maybe our friends don't like to do things on
trains. Maybe ... Hey! We're slowing up for a station stop. Wonder what
place it is? Let's have a look. Snap off the light, sweetheart."
Freddy Farmer whipped up his hand, and the compartment was instantly
plunged into pitch darkness. Both boys felt their way over to the window
and lifted up the blackout blinds. It took a few seconds to accustom
their eyes to the even deeper darkness outside. And then they saw that
the train was passing the outskirts of a fair sized town, and obviously
slowing down for an eventual full stop.
"My guess is that it's Edinburgh," Freddy Farmer said, with his nose
pressed against the glass. "We've been on this thing long enough to get
there, I fancy."