Stealing Trinity (17 page)

"Lydia!" Sargent Cole screamed as he bolted for the stairs.

Thatcher followed, his crippled stride slower up the steps.

"My darling! Are you all right?" Sargent Cole said, cradling her.

Thatcher paused long enough to hear Lydia Cole moan. She was battered and bruised, but alive. He kept moving to the second-floor landing, and there he found the butler lying in a heap on the floor.

" Where is he7" Thatcher demanded.

The servant pointed down the hallway.

Thatcher moved as fast as he could. He heard a crash from a room just ahead. Thatcher tried the door, but it was locked. Taking two steps back, he lunged at the door with a lowered shoulder. His body bounced back into the hallway. He rushed straight back with even more determination. This time the wood frame gave a distinct crack. Thatcher heaved himself a third time, and the door gave way.

He tumbled into the room, sprawling face down on the floor. Rolling onto his back, Thatcher saw a flash of steel. He twisted to one side as a fireplace poker smacked the marble floor where his head had just been, chips of stone stinging his cheek. Instinctively, he grabbed the shaft and looked up. Alexander Braun was standing over him, rage written across his Teutonic features. They grappled fiercely and Braun fell to the floor, straddling Thatcher's chest. It seemed a tactical victory, getting Braun down to his own level, but then Thatcher felt the man twist and pull the iron bar until it was straight across his throat.

He heaved and rolled, got both hands on the weapon, but Braun was stronger. The killer used his weight to press down on the rod. Thatcher heaved and squirmed but he knew he was no match. The cold rod pushed harder. His breaths were no more than stifled gasps.

I need a weapon, he thought. But even if there had been something, he couldn't free either hand for an instant. Thatcher tried to lock his arms, keep the bar from pushing any further, but it was no use -- it was only a matter of time before his guttural rasps would be cut off.

The veins in Braun's thick neck bulged, the muscles strained like taut rope. As Thatcher weakened he found himself staring at the man's eyes. They were pale blue. Yet unlike the rest of the killer's tense features, the eyes held an unnerving ease, a calm as he finalized his murderous task. Thatcher felt his strength slipping. The blue eyes turned gray. Everything turned gray. Then, suddenly, a breath.

His vision returned and Thatcher looked up just in time to see Braun heave the poker toward the door. An instant later a shot rang out. Braun scrambled to his feet and ran. Thatcher watched the man put a foot to the window sill in perfect stride and jump.

Thatcher struggled to his feet, holding his nearly crushed throat, gasping for air. Sargent Cole ran past him to the window. He carried a cracked shotgun, his free hand feeding a fresh shell into the smoking chamber. Thatcher reached his side just as Cole fired again from the second-floor window. He saw Braun swerve severely as a cloud of dust and gravel sprayed to his right.

"Shit!" Sargent Cole bellowed. "He's headed for the garage."

Thatcher staggered to the hallway, passing an oval buckshot hole in the plaster wall. He stumbled downstairs, past Lydia Cole, who was now being tended to by the butler. Outside, he paused at the front steps. Thatcher heard an engine being gunned from around the side of the house. He ran for his car.

Thatcher was halfway across the gravel parking area when he froze. A big black sedan flew into view, fishtailing to one side around the bend -- when it straightened out, the car was headed right for him. With only an instant to decide, Thatcher dove left, pushing up and away with his good leg. He was airborne when the car hit his prosthesis, sending him spinning across the gravel. Stones tore at the exposed flesh on his hands and face. Thatcher scrambled up in a cloud of dust and kept moving toward his car. His limp was more pronounced than usual, the blow from the fender having dislodged his artificial leg. There was also pain in his good leg, but he could still move.

He got in the Army sedan and launched it up the driveway. Brauns car was no longer in sight, but a trail of dust led to the main road. There, Thatcher turned right -- as far as he knew, it was the only way out of town. A mile later came the first intersection. Thatcher stopped. He looked left, right, and straight ahead. It was no use.

He slapped his bloody palm on the steering wheel. "Damn it all!"

Chapter 22.

Braun drove wildly down the dirt road he'd scouted the day before. The back of the car slipped around corners and loose stones went flying through clouds of dust. On another day it might have been exhilarating.

All along Braun had known he was taking a tremendous risk by killing Edward. It was one thing to do it and not fall under suspicion by either the police or Sargent Cole. It was quite another to do it as a spy, a man with no identity.

And he thought he might have pulled it off. The police had questioned him thoroughly about Edward's "accident," but never asked for any kind of identification or military orders. As hoped, they'd simply relied on a powerful family's familiarity. Who would suspect Sargent Cole of harboring the last Nazi spy? Sargent himself had clearly been rattled by the tragedy, but so far his attention had fallen to comforting his daughter -- not to accusing Braun.

All the same, Braun had stayed alert. He had been at the library window when the military sedan pulled up. He watched a lone officer in an unfamiliar uniform walk to the front portico. Alarm bells sounded in his head. He noticed that the man limped slightly, and when Evans answered the door, Braun heard the soldier introduce himself in a clipped British accent. Good morning.

I'm Major Michael Thatcher. I'm an investigator with the British Army. . . help me locate a man by the name of Alexander Brown.

The alarm screamed. Braun had rushed upstairs to collect his cash -- and run straight into Lydia. She paused on seeing him, perched at the top of the stairs. Then Lydia had smiled. As always, so completely trusting and unaware. Silly girl. Braun had acted on instinct -- a gentle shove was all it took. Then all hell had broken loose.

Now, as he drove, Braun wondered what had gone wrong. Had he been careless, perhaps slipping up on his accent? Had someone at Harrold House become suspicious? Or maybe the police had become curious about Edwards disappearance. Yet none of that fit a lone, gimpy British officer tracking to his door like a hound on a scent. For an instant Braun had considered staying, to talk to the man. But now he was sure he'd done the right thing by running. Major Michael Thatcher had to be something else. A new threat. Maybe the Allies had uncovered his mission. Maybe the bastard captain of U-801 had talked. But how had the man tracked him here?

The car burst into a clearing and Braun's objective came into sight. The questions would have to wait. He slowed as he approached the place, eyeing everything carefully, measuring it against what he had seen yesterday. Two small aircraft hangars were separated by a modest office that displayed a sign advertising Mitchells Flying Service. Behind the buildings was the long, freshly cut strip of grass that served as the runway. Braun pulled the car next to one of the hangars, cursing under his breath. All the doors were shut and the office was locked down tight. Old man Mitchell had not yet arrived for work.

He brought the Buick Special to a stop and smacked his fist on the dashboard. This had been his insurance if things ran foul. He'd come here yesterday after lunch to make an idle inquiry about flying lessons. Years ago, during his summer with Lydia, he had tagged along on some flights with her cousin Frank, who was a licensed pilot. Braun had met old Mitchell back then, and the little airfield, a remote strip of level ground cut from the surrounding forest, was now his first choice for escape. The authorities might think of it, but it would be far down their list after scouring roads, buses, and train stations.

Yesterday the old man had been at work, tinkering with an airplane in one of the hangars. There were no formal business hours posted on the office door, and Braun suspected that Mitchell kept his own schedule. It was nine fifteen -- still early. Would he be here by ten? Noon? Or might this be his self-appointed day off? Braun couldn't wait to find out.

He left the car and walked quickly to the office. An after-hours telephone number was posted on the sign. He committed it to memory and circled the small building. Braun knew there was a telephone inside, and it would be far less risky than heading five miles back to town to use a telephone booth. The only door to the place was locked and looked solid. He circled around and found a window on each side. The second, in the back, gave way with a solid tug. Braun climbed in, quickly found the phone, and dialed the number. Mitchell picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, Mr. Mitchell, this is Alex Brown. We spoke yesterday out at the airfield."

"Yes, yes. What can I do for you? Have you decided to go ahead with the lessons?"

"Well, in a way. I actually have a crisis on my hands. I've got some important business back in Minneapolis, and I was hoping to hire you out on a charter."

"Minnesota? That's a long way from here, boy."

"Yes, I know, but I thought we could combine things -- do some instruction along the way."

"I see. And when did you want to go?"

"That's the catch. It would have to be right away. I'm near the field now. I could be there in fifteen minutes." There was a pause, and Braun imagined the old man cupping his stubbled chin as he had a penchant to do.

"I have a lesson scheduled for this afternoon," Mitchell said.

"And Minnesota would take two days -- maybe more, depending on the weather."

Braun forced a slight British whim into his voice, a tendency he had adopted from the local upper crust, a quiet registry of social standing. "I know it must be a terrible bother, but I'll gladly make it worth your while. Would two hundred do it?"

"Two hundred dollars?"

"Plus expenses -- fuel and that sort of thing."

"Young man, you got yourself a deal."

Mitchell showed up thirty minutes later. Braun was leaning on the fender of the Buick, toying with a lit cigarette. He'd already closed up the office and made sure nothing inside had been disturbed. It would set an uncomfortable precedent if the old man discovered that he had broken into the building just to use the telephone.

Mitchell parked his old truck next to the office. "I'll have to get a few things," he said, pulling a handful of loose keys from his pocket. He tossed one to Braun and pointed to the nearest hangar. "We'll take the Luscombe. She's the gentler of the two, plus she's the one with the fuel ration." The old man winked. "I carry mail a few times a week -- it gets me all the gas I need."

Mitchell unlocked the office and went inside. Braun took his cue and unlocked the hangar. Two corrugated metal doors, sagging on rusty hinges, had to be lifted and dragged aside. Fortunately, the white Luscombe nestled inside had seen far better care. She looked clean and tidy. There was one engine, a single high wing, and, as Braun had heard around the airport, she was a tail-dragger -- high at the front on two main wheels, and a small pivoting wheel underneath the tail. Mitchell came out of the office with an armful of charts and books. He locked the office door and strode to the hangar.

"I checked the weather. Might be a few rain showers this afternoon in Ohio, but just the usual summertime puffies. Let's get her out into the daylight."

Braun moved a toolbox and an old bicycle clear so that the aircraft could be brought outside. He remembered the first time he had moved an airplane, surprised that such a big machine could be so light.

"Now, if you re gonna fly there's bookwork to be done. But since we re in a hurry, I'll bring the manual with us. It'll be three long flights to Minnesota. On the first, you watch and I'll fly. You'll get your stick time after that." He walked around to the far side of the aircraft and threw his gear into the cockpit. "Grab a strut, son. On three--"

Braun put both hands to the support brace that ran from the fuselage to the bottom of the wing.

"One, two--"

Both men pushed, and in seconds the Luscombe was clear of the hangar. Mitchell busied himself checking the oil and fuel, talking as he went. Braun wasn't listening as he stared at the empty building. He said, "Since we might be gone for awhile, can I leave my car inside?"

"Sure. Don't have much trouble out here, but lock her in if you want."

Five minutes later Braun had the Buick secured neatly in the hangar.

"I'll start in the left seat," Mitchell said, "then we'll switch out at the first fuel stop."

"All right."

"Now, watch close." Mitchell put a hand to the propeller. "She won't start now 'cause the ignition's not on. When I say contact,' you turn it like this." He pulled down on the propeller. "Then get the hell clear. Got it?"

"Sure."

Mitchell climbed into the small craft and took the left seat. He flipped a few switches before shouting, "Contact!"

Braun turned the propeller and the engine coughed once, then stopped.

"Again!"

On the second try the engine caught. It spit a cloud of blue smoke, as if trying to rid itself of some respiratory malady, before latching to an idle. Braun kept clear as he scurried around and climbed in on the right-hand side. With the old man running through his checks, Braun struggled to pull the door shut. One shoulder was jammed against the side window, the other against Mitchell. The last time he'd flown, it had been in a different type of aircraft -- he didn't remember it being so cramped.

Braun studied his new surroundings. There was a control stick between his legs. The dash in front displayed a half-dozen gauges, along with some levers and switches. A few of the gauges were obvious enough -- airspeed, engine tachometer, altimeter. "Why is the compass up there?" he asked, referring to the lone instrument above the dash.

"It's magnetic. You have to keep it away from the rest. I set a metal thermos up on the dash one day -- ended up over Lake Erie before I figured it out."