Stealing Trinity (21 page)

Thatcher turned back to the water. Under a thick haze the Atlantic looked nearly black, fading to obscurity at the horizon. He was angry. Angry he'd been so close, yet bumbled away the chance to catch Braun. And angry that what Jones said made sense. Why had Braun come here? What was he after? And most importantly, where had he gone now?

Chapter 26.

The cheese was foul and Braun spit out the first bite of his sandwich. Adjacent to the airport in Lamoni, Iowa, along Route 69, there had been only one motel and one restaurant. It was a traveler's lodge, a place to rest for as long as one could ignore the heavy trucks that rattled in and out from the grain elevators across the street. The room was dank, one small bed with stained sheets and the musty odor of mothballs. Wanting to keep as low a profile as possible, Braun had ordered a ham and cheese sandwich to take to his room, but now he wished he'd risked a hot meal.

There had been enough fuel and daylight to fly at least another hundred miles, but a huge thunderstorm had blackened the sky to the west. When Braun spotted the little airstrip he decided not to press his luck. The landing had been wobbly, but his confidence was growing. He had covered three hundred miles since disposing of Mitchell, stopping once for fuel. On only one occasion had he become unsure of his position, and he'd tried Mitchell's silly tactic of going low to check the road signs. Surprisingly, it worked. He had easily correlated city names to fix his position on the map. Unfortunately, Mitchell's aviation charts ended at the Kansas border. Braun would have to find something else tomorrow. If he couldn't get a proper flight chart, he reckoned he could do as well with a good road map.

He had already arranged to have the Luscombe fueled -- the attendant seemed to accept his story about delivering the craft to a rural postal service in Colorado -- and now Braun would try for a decent nights rest as he sorted through the next steps.

He heard a spray of light taps against the window. Braun pulled aside the tattered curtain to see a turbulent scene. The storm front had arrived. Swirling winds blew dust across the road as the first heavy raindrops smacked down, tiny explosions erupting in the dirt parking area. He let the curtain fall closed and reconsidered the once bitten sandwich and warm bottle of beer next to his bed. Perhaps something from the wine cellar, he mused. Braun sat on the bed, springs squeaking under his weight, and he forced down the rancid meal. How quickly he had been spoiled, he realized. A few months ago he would have celebrated this as a special feast.

He thought again of his decision to go to Santa Fe for a meeting with Die Wespe. It had not been an easy choice. The voice of the Englishman intruded constantly ... Major Michael Thatcher . . . help me locate a man by the name of Alexander Brown. Had someone -- Rode, Gruber, or Becker -- been captured and talked? The crew of U-801? Perhaps, but none of them would have known about Newport. How had the Englishman tracked him there? His name -- the authorities had discovered his name. From there how difficult would it have been to connect Alexander Brown to Lydia and Newport? Not very. It was likely the Americans had helped. And that led to one thing -- this Manhattan Project, whatever it was, might indeed be important.

He wondered if the authorities had uncovered Die Wespe. There was no way to be sure. But if so, they'd be waiting for Braun in New Mexico. He remembered Colonel Gruber's last words to him ... You must bring the information Die Wespe holds. It is priceless, vital to our future. Priceless. He found that one word inescapable.

A knock on the door startled him. Braun couldn't see outside. If he moved the curtain aside to look, the movement would be seen. With no other way out of the room, he decided the direct approach would be best. Swilling down the rest of his beer, Braun grabbed the bottle firmly by the neck, covered it with a pillow to muffle the sound, and smacked it hard across the edge of the nightstand. With the jagged remainder firmly in his hand, he went to the door. Braun squared his feet in a strong stance and pulled it partially open, keeping his weapon out of sight.

"Urn, hello there, sir."

It was the service boy from the airport, a skinny teenager whose skeletal frame swam inside greasy coveralls that were spotted with raindrops. Braun s hand remained tense on the broken bottle, yet his eyes sparkled with ease.

"What is it?"

"She could use some oil. You want me to go ahead and add it?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay." The boy rubbed a chin that was just sprouting its first few, reddish whiskers. "Ah, it'll be two dollars."

Braun pulled out the wallet he'd taken from Hiram Mitchell's back pocket before dropping him five thousand feet to his death. Still holding the bottle, he fumbled behind the door to use both hands, and eventually shoved out three dollar bills.

"Thank you, sir."

Braun gestured to the storm outside. "Assuming this lets up, I plan on leaving at first light."

"Oh, it'll be cleared up by then, mister. And I'm always at the hangar by six. Let me know if you need anything else." The kid gave a two-fingered salute, and dashed through the rain to a weary old truck.

Braun closed the door and leaned into it with a shoulder. He tossed the jagged bottle into a trash can and took a deep breath. Three days until the meeting with Die Wespe. He wondered what this Manhattan Project could possibly be. A rocket-bomb like the V-2? An airplane? Braun simply had to find out. And he had to be very careful.

He went to the bed and stretched out on top of the sheets.

The room was hot and uncomfortable. New Mexico would be even worse. Yet for all the hardships Braun had seen, this he did not mind. He only wanted to never be cold again.

When Braun arrived at seven the boy had the airplane ready to go, tie-downs removed and fully serviced. Breakfast had been better-- it was hard to mess up eggs -- and by ten minutes after seven he was cruising westward, following the Rand McNally map he'd purchased at a gas station near the motel. It would take the entire morning to traverse Kansas, and the Luscombe would need one more refueling to reach New Mexico.

He considered what to do with the airplane when he arrived in Santa Fe. Should he try to keep it hidden as a potential means of escape? Sell it for cash? Unfortunately, the Luscombe was the one thing that tied him to Newport and a missing flight instructor.

The flight across Kansas was familiar -- flat, incredibly uniform features. Endless dirt roads demarked square farm plots. Each was tended by a small house, with larger buildings to shelter equipment and harvests. Braun had taken to following a rail line, easily distinguishable from the roads, and punctuated with precision regularity by grain elevators. It was all very orderly and functional, a well-thought-out design, he decided.

The fuel stop came after four hours, a place called Liberal, Kansas. The midday heat was insufferable, its companion a stiff breeze that did nothing to cool but instead acted as a bellows to the fire. The facilities around the airfield looked in decent shape, but Braun was surprised to find that there was no fuel service here. He was forced to walk two miles to the nearest gas station, where he again tried to use Hiram Mitchells postal credentials. The surly attendant groused that he'd been having trouble getting letters through to his son in the Pacific, but ten dollars eventually sufficed for eighteen gallons of high-test, the use of two ten gallon cans, and a ride back to Liberal Municipal. It was noon when he departed.

As he taxied to the end of the runway, Braun noted the different landing surface. It was a hardpan dirt strip as opposed to the grass he was used to. There was a stiff crosswind, and when he began the takeoff roll Braun wrestled awkwardly with the controls to keep the machine headed in the right direction. The Luscombe seemed to hesitate, building speed much more slowly than in the past. His first idea was to shove the throttle forward, but it was already against the stop.

He felt a sudden pang of discomfort. Was something wrong with the engine? Was a dirt strip different than grass, some coefficient dragging him back? He watched the airspeed build with glacial speed. The end of the runway came closer -- not trees or a fence, but rather squat bushes, the boundary where clearing work had simply stopped. At fifty miles an hour it was clear that the Luscombe might not get airborne. A wall of tangled brown bushes rushed toward him. Braun considered trying to stop. But could he? Or would he only go careening into the scrub?

Finally, the tail began to respond, rising lazily to his command. Braun waited until the last moment, then pulled back firmly. The main wheels came up, lumbering, and the wings seemed to wobble. Somehow the plane rose just enough, skimming across flat terrain as the airspeed crept upward. He milked the thing up until he had a hundred feet, two hundred, and finally a thousand. Only then did Braun realize how his heart was racing.

Outside, the remains of what looked like a tumbleweed was tangled in his right wheel, fluttering crazily in the wind stream. He took a deep breath. How had that happened? Braun wondered. Have I become reckless? He measured it all, and soon the answer filtered down. No, he was not reckless. Braun was unaware of his specific mistake during the takeoff, yet he knew where it was rooted. Overconfidence. He had gotten too comfortable in an unfamiliar discipline. Braun remembered the grip of success he had felt as a new sniper --one good shot tempted another. And another. But the odds would find you.

He looked ahead and found his railway, the curvilinear guide that had brought him here. It still meandered west. The sky had filled with clouds, thick and puffy, and to the north he saw a thunderstorm, classic in its anvil shape. Braun figured it must be beating the hell out of a farm somewhere. He recalled that Mitchell had always checked the weather by phone before each flight. Braun should have learned how this was done. Of course, now it was too late. And in any event, his next landing would likely be his last.

It was Hiram Mitchells wife who broke things open. The untouched apple pie on the sill above the kitchen sink loomed ominously, and when she didn't hear from her husband by midday on the third day, she got worried. If the Luscombe had broken down he would have called. Not knowing who to call to report a missing airplane, she decided on the local police. The operator there almost pushed her off on the Civil Aeronautics Board before an astute desk man made the connection.

A squad car was sent to the airfield, and it took another ten minutes for the officer to get permission to whack the padlock off the hangar door. He reported that he'd found the missing Buick, and a short time later the news reached the library at Harrold House.

Chapter 27.

Lydia was in her room, arranging the flowers Edward had given her only a few days ago. They were beginning to wilt, black at the edges, and she turned the freshest side of each forward. She wondered, perhaps, if she could plant a row of the same variety on the east side of the house and tend to them herself. Lydia knew nothing about gardening, but Wescott could teach her.

Hearing the telephone ring in the distance, Lydia headed for the library. It was a considerable effort, the aches and bruises from being sent down the stairs still fresh. The pain pills made her woozy, keeping the world in a haze. She hated the drugs, but the doctor had insisted.

When she reached the library her father was already talking, scribbling down information. Major Thatcher was also there, and Lydia took a chair next to him. Father had put the Englishman up in a small room, and he'd become a fixture around the place. Lydia studied the little man with the limp who seemed so direct and focused. It was odd, she thought. She'd always imagined her father to be a strong man, and physically he was, but the Englishman carried a different sway, an intensity of purpose that she recognized, but didn't quite understand.

Her father hung up the phone.

"Have they found him?" Thatcher asked.

"They found the car," Sargent Cole said. "Mitchell's Flying Service -- its a little operation off State Road Seventy-seven."

Thatcher winced. "We've been looking everywhere else -- the bus and train stations, the airport in Providence."

Through her drug induced stupor, Lydia made a connection. "Frank! Of course, I should have remembered."

Thatcher said, "Remembered what?"

"Cousin Frank -- he and Alex went up for a few flights the last time Alex stayed with us. He'd know about the airfield. How stupid of me not to remember."

"Did Brown know how to fly?" Thatcher asked.

"No, I don't think so. He and Frank just went joyriding, as I remember it."

Sargent Cole said, "That was five years ago. For all we know, he could be a Luftwaffe ace by now."

Thatcher moved to a large map of the United States that was situated centrally on the wall behind an ornate writing desk. He stood with his hands on his hips and wondered aloud, "So where have you gone now, my friend?"

Lydia looked at the map and instantly knew the answer. "Santa Fe!" The words came in a strong, clear voice that belied here foggy mind. She took Thatcher by the elbow and pulled him closer to the map. "He's going to Santa Fe! The other day I came into this room and he had his finger parked right on it. He gave me some story about tracing his route out west. I remember the name perfectly because I decided he was taking the train. The Santa Fe Line."

Sargent Cole said, "What do you think, Major? Could there be something to it?"

The Englishman seemed to hesitate as he stared at the map. "Possibly."

"We have to tell the FBI," Lydia said, her eyes boring into the map. "They'll catch him."

"All right," Thatcher agreed. "I'll call Jones."

Thatcher made the call from another room, needing privacy to sort through the ideas churning in his head. Santa Fe, New Mexico. New Mexico. He remembered Corporal Kleins words. There is an agent, in Mexico I think, code name Die Wespe... the Manhattan Project. Did it really make sense? Thatcher wondered. Or was he grasping at the breeze?

When Tomas Jones came on line he was noncommittal about the news of the getaway car having been found. "So he's out flying around with some old geezer. Any idea where they're headed?"