Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (41 page)

Ahead and below, a red light bloomed, falling slowly back toward the river’s surface, and Tiny said, “Cairo has us in sight.”

“Put me through,” Alma said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Cairo Tower, this is Gilchrist Aviation Catalina, requesting clearance to land.”

“Gilchrist, Cairo Tower. We are clearing the landing area now and will advise with one white light when it is available. A launch is standing by for your wounded.”

“Thank you, Tower,” Alma said. “We’re coming in heavy, how long a taxiway do we have?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause, filled with engine noise and static. “Advise you land as close as possible to the bridge, Gilchrist. Stand by for the flare.”

“Roger that, Tower,” Alma answered, and switched to the intercom. “Prepare for landing, everyone.”

They worked through the checklist as the Catalina dropped lower, following the river north toward into the heart of the city. She could see the bridge now, a drawbridge currently closed, traffic moving steadily along its many-arched span. Beyond it, the river looked calm and empty, a broad stretch of water running nearly a mile and half before it divided around another enormous island.

“Look,” Mitch said. “Off to the left.” There was a catch in his voice, and she glanced out the side window. The pyramids shone golden in the morning sun, laid out as beautiful as a picture post card against the desert, enormous even from the air.

Another flare went up, and Cairo Tower spoke again. “Gilchrist, you are cleared to land.”

“Cleared to land, thank you, Tower,” Alma answered. “Beginning final approach.” She switched back to the intercom. “Final approach. Floats down.”

“Floats down,” Lewis repeated, and the Cat shuddered and slowed as the pontoons locked into place. Alma adjusted the trim, steadying the ship as the airspeed slowed. They were dropping down through three hundred feet now, the bridge still ahead of them, and Alma eased back on the yoke. Two hundred feet, one-fifty, one hundred. The bridge flashed beneath them, close enough to see faces turned to look at them, and then the river was rising to meet them. She kept the nose up, speed at the eighty knots she liked for an unfamiliar landing, and then the Cat’s hull cut the surface, water surging along the sides of the hull as the river itself acted as a brake. The Cat slowed, and she let the nose down, settling at last into the water, converted once again into an ungainly boat.

“Good landing, Gilchrist,” the Tower said. “The pilot boat is approaching from your port side, follow him to mooring, please.”

Alma craned her neck. “I see the pilot boat, Tower, thank you. We’ll follow it in.”

The white-painted launch led them alongside an enormous buoy, and Tiny caught the ring on his second try. Once they were secured, Alma shut down the engines and leaned back in her seat, the hours of flight finally catching up with her.

“I think that’s the embassy boat,” Mitch said, peering out his side of the canopy.

Alma knew she should get up, get Filagot and her people off the Cat and into the protection of the Ethiopian embassy, but her shoulders ached and her legs felt as though they were made of lead. In a minute, she told herself, in a minute she would get up, but just for this instant she would close her eyes…

“Al.” Mitch’s hand was on her shoulder. “Why don’t you let me talk to these guys? You take a break, and I’ll yell if I need you.”

It was her job, she thought, but then, Mitch was a partner, too. She nodded, her eyes closing, and was asleep before he left the cockpit.

When she woke again, it was mid-afternoon, the sun and the light entirely changed, and she blinked in confusion before she thought to check her watch. The Cat was riding lighter, and Lewis had his hand on her shoulder.

“How are you doing?”

“Better for the rest,” Alma admitted, and hauled herself out of the seat. “Is — did you get everybody off?”

Lewis nodded. “Miss Filagot’s uncle came to collect everyone — he said there were ambulances waiting, and that everyone would be taken care of. And Mitch got hold of that guy from the Swedish embassy, so von Rosen’s film is on its way. I think he wired Jerry at the same time.”

Alma climbed past him into the radio room and then into the engine compartment, empty now of women and children. The hatch was open, letting in a breath of air. Mitch came forward in the same moment, climbing out of the passenger compartment, and stopped with a smile.

“You’re looking better.”

“I’m feeling better.” Alma stretched again, considering, and stooped to look out the hatch. There was a thin layer of cloud at eight or nine thousand feet, but plenty of sunshine and only a moderate breeze. “What say we try to make Alexandria today?”

“Are you up for it?” Lewis asked.

Mitch spoke in almost the same moment. “If you let me fly.”

Alma nodded. “Yeah.” An hour and a half to Lake Mareotis, a night at a good hotel, and then on to Palermo in the morning… “Yes,” she said again. “Let’s go home.”

January 6, 1936

S
tasi was attempting to feed Dora a poached egg (with limited success) when someone knocked on the suite door. “Come in!” she shouted cheerily, or at least as cheerily as possible at the volume necessary to be heard over Douglas and Merilee squabbling at the top of their voices.

“I can’t,” Henry Kershaw called back. “The door’s locked.”

So she had to get up and open the door to the suite, which involved holding Dora more or less upside down. “Sorry. I thought you were the maid.”

“Not lately,” Kershaw said, coming in and closing the door.

Stasi bolted it to prevent runaways. Merilee had learned to turn a doorknob, and she was getting awfully speedy. She turned Dora right side up and deposited her on the floor. “So how are you, darling?” she asked airily, brushing the poached egg out of her hair.

“Did you know there was a robbery in this hotel last night?” Kershaw asked.

“Oh yes, something about a cat burglar,” Stasi said. “They wondered if the man had climbed up the side of the building.”

“Somehow that seems unlikely to me,” Kershaw said, his hands in his pockets. “I’m wondering if it was more of an inside job.”

“Anything is possible, darling,” Stasi said with an insouciant smile. “If Mr. Hess will leave valuable rings lying around…”

“Is that what went missing?” Kershaw looked surprised, the suspicious light in his eyes changing to worry.

“That’s what the concierge said,” Stasi replied. “And that it was the only thing stolen.”

“Well,” Kershaw said.

“It’s a terrible pity. I’m sure he finds it very… distracting.”

Kershaw met her eyes, a note of amusement creeping into his voice. “You mean from questions like where von Rosen went and with whom?”

“Yes, from questions like that. But you know how incorrigible cat burglars can be. Just climbed right up the side of the building like a spider! That’s what the police thought.”

Douglas popped up at her elbow. “A cat burglar? Whose cat got stolen?”

“It was a ring,” Kershaw said, “not a cat.”

“Then why do they call it a cat burglar?”

“A cat burglar is a thief who climbs around on buildings and sneaks in through windows,” Stasi said. “It’s one of the highest forms of burglary, actually. Made famous by Bunny and Raffles, and by many fine gentleman thieves.”

Kershaw snorted.

Douglas looked fascinated. “Who are Bunny and Raffles?”

“Some gentlemen I knew when I lived in England,” Stasi said. “Before the Great War.”

“I thought you lived in Russia,” Douglas said.

“I was born in Russia. I came to England for the Coronation.”

“Whose coronation?”

“Darling, they’re always coronating somebody.” Stasi put her hands on Douglas’ head. “Now stop interrupting. Mr. Kershaw is gulping like a fish trying to get a word in sideways. Yes, Henry?”

“Nothing.” Kershaw was actually smiling. “I’m sure some professional second story man is at fault. Can’t be too careful in foreign hotels, you know.”

There was another knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“Telegram, signora.”

Stasi flung the door open as fast as possible and tore into the envelope, relaxing only when she saw it was from Mitch. She read it through twice, then glanced up at Kershaw, who was waiting politely. “It’s from Mitch. He says they’re in Cairo and they’ll be back here tomorrow.”

“That’s a relief,” Kershaw said.

“He says everything is fine, and he’ll see us late tomorrow night.” Stasi took a deep breath, horrified at the actual catch in her voice. “Well, then. All’s well that ends well.”

“So they say,” Kershaw said.

January 6, 1936

I
t was late by the time they got back to the apartment, late enough that Jerry didn’t bother turning on the light in the living room, but went straight into the bedroom to take off his leg. Willi lagged behind, but as Jerry freed his aching stump, the other man appeared, two ice-filled glasses and a bottle of bourbon in his hands. He set them on the table next to Jerry and switched on the fan, while Jerry poured them each three solid fingers of the liquor. Alma and the others were safely tucked up at the Imperial Hotel, the Catalina moored at Claudet’s warehouse to have as many of the interior fittings restored as was possible over the long afternoon, and all was about as well as could be expected. Except for Iskinder, somewhere southeast of Gondar, fighting a war Ethiopia could not win. The Italians had all the advantages, all the modern weapons of war, and no compunction about using them. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about gas, about Gil, and Willi said, “Do you want your kit?”

“Yes.” Jerry made himself sit up straight and focus on what he could do, what he should do, here and now. “Thanks.”

Willi brought the battered Dopp kit from the bathroom and settled himself on the other side of the bed as Jerry set to work, resting one shoulder companionably against him. The whir of the fan was the only sound as Jerry methodically tended to the stump of his leg, dabbing zinc ointment on the latest raw spot. It had held up better than he had expected, at least until their adventure in the cisterns. He would be paying for that for months, but couldn’t find it in himself to complain, at least not about that.

He returned everything to the kit and poured himself another drink, glad of the sweet heat to take the edge off the pain. He held the bottle up in silent question, but Willi shook his head.

“Are you going to be all right?”

Jerry sighed, and let his head rest against the cool white-painted plaster above the low headboard. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There are always choices,” Willi said. “We will come back —”

“When?”

“Whenever this blows over. Or if you think it will not, then — declare it. Everyone will move heaven and earth to protect the tomb of Alexander. If everyone knows, it can’t be stolen.”

“You agreed,” Jerry said, too tired to be angry. “You gave your word.”

“I did.” Willi nodded. “And I’ll keep it. But —”

“You know why we can’t let it be found.”

“It’s not fair.”

Jerry blinked, and shifted against the wall so that Willi’s face came into focus. “What? What do you mean, not fair?”

“All the work you’ve done,” Willi said. “Everything you put together, from the medallion to the lay of the streets, to the Pylon of Isis itself — yes, to tracing your way through the cisterns, though I’d love to see how you were going to write that up in any journal! Brilliant work, and all yours, and you ought to be lecturing about how clever you are for the rest of your academic life. And, yes, I see why we must let it go, and I will say nothing. But you deserve better.”

“Oh.” Jerry blinked again, and Willi turned, straddling Jerry’s legs so that they were facing each other on the unsteady mattress.

“This has been the best summer of my life, when I thought there was no point in looking for either adventure or a lover or even professional advancement. I do not care what else there is, what you believe in, or what your friends are up to, or whether the world will end tomorrow. I am proud to have worked with you, and I would have liked to see you get the recognition you deserve.”

He bent down for a kiss, and Jerry cupped his face in both hands, tasting bourbon and cigarettes. “I have what I want,” he said, and took a breath. “Would you consider — if a position opens up at the Met, would you be interested?”

Willi went still. “Would you be there?”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“Leave Germany — leave Berlin,” Willi corrected, with a wry smile. “Though it is not the same as it has been.”

“New York’s not Berlin,” Jerry said. “But there are places. And there will be other digs. I hope. Someday.”

He felt Willi take a deep breath, ribs heaving as though he’d been running. “There are things that I would have to take care of —”

“Of course.”

“But —” He nodded abruptly. “Yes, if there’s a place, yes, I would certainly consider it.”

“Well.” Jerry relaxed, a bubble of relief, of joy, rising in him. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

“And in the meantime…” Willi grinned. “We still have some weeks.”

“So we do,” Jerry said, and pulled him close again.

Six months later

July 1, 1936

T
he judge peered over the edge of the bench, looking down because Jimmy was shorter than most of the people who stood there. “You understand the proceedings, son?”

“I do, sir.” Jimmy’s voice was good and loud, carrying even to Alma in the third row of the courtroom. Dora twisted around, trying to squirm off her lap, and Lewis scooped her up. On the other side of Alma, Jerry looked somber.

“You’re not a child,” the judge said. “You’re twelve years old, and you understand what you’re agreeing to. And you understand you don’t have to.”

“I do, sir.” Again his voice was good and solid. Stasi looked pallid under her powder, wearing black as though it were a funeral.

“Your brother and sister are too little to require consent, but you’re a young man,” the judge said. “Not a boy. You understand this can’t be undone. No matter what. This is for life.”