The Mediterranean Caper (8 page)

Pitt, mildly stunned,
looked warily at the gigantic German shepherd and then into the face of the dog's elderly master. The evil unsmiling features, so familiar on the late, late movies on television, sat entrenched on a typical round German face, complete with the shaven head, shifty eyes and no neck. Thin lips pressed tightly together as though their owner suffered from constipation. The body fit the villainous image too; heavyset in a rotund frame of solid tissue with no flab. All that was missing was a riding quirt and the polished boots. For an instant Pitt thought, the man you love to hate, Eric von Stroheim, had returned to life and stood ready to direct a scene from
Greed
.

“Good evening,” the old man said in a suspicious guttural tone. “You are, I believe, the gentleman my niece invited to dinner?”

Pitt rose, one eye on the huge panting dog. “Yes sir. Major Dirk Pitt at your service.”

An expression of surprise furrowed the brow below the tight-skinned head. “My niece led me to believe you were under the rank of sergeant, and your military occupation was garbage collecting.”

“You must forgive my American humor,” said Pitt, enjoying the other man's confusion. “I hope my little deception has caused you no inconvenience.”

“No, a little concern perhaps, but no inconvenience.” The old German extended his hand and studied Pitt closely. “It is an honor to meet you, Major. I am Bruno von Till.”

Pitt clasped the outstretched hand and returned the stare. “The honor is mine, sir.”

Von Till lifted a tapestry, revealing a doorway. “Please come this way, Major. You must join me for a drink while we wait for Teri to finish dressing.”

Pitt followed the flat form and the white hound down a dark hallway that led into a large cavernous study. The ceiling arched at least thirty feet high and was supported by several fluted Ionic column shafts. The furniture, classic in its simplicity, sparsely dotted the floor and lent an air of grace to the imposing chamber. A cart was already laid with unusual Greek hors d'oeuvres, and a recessed alcove of one wall housed a completely equipped bar. The only item of decor, Pitt noted, that seemed out of place was a model of a German submarine, resting on a shelf above the bar.

Von Till motioned Pitt to sit down. “What will be your pleasure, Major?”

“Scotch rocks would be fine,” replied Pitt, leaning back in an armless couch. “Your villa is most impressive. It must have an interesting history.”

“Yes, it was originally built by the Romans in 138 B.C. as a temple to Minerva, their goddess of wisdom. I purchased the ruins shortly after the First World War and rebuilt it into what you see today.” He handed Pitt a glass. “Shall we drink a toast?”

“To whom or what shall we drink to?”

Von Till smiled. “You may have the honor, Major. Beautiful women…riches…a long life. Perhaps to the president of your country. The choice is yours.”

Pitt took a deep breath. “In that case I propose a toast to the courage and flying skill of Kurt Heibert, The
Hawk of Macedonia
.”

Von Till's face went blank. He slowly eased into a chair and toyed with his drink. “You are a very unusual man, Major. You pass yourself off as a garbage collector. You come to my villa and assault my chauffeur, and then you astound me further by proposing a toast to my old flying comrade, Kurt.” He threw a sly grin over his drink at Pitt. “However, your most outstanding performance was in seducing my niece on the beach this morning. For that feat I congratulate and thank you. Today, for the first time in nine years, I saw Teri happily singing and laughing with an intense joy in living. I am afraid you force me to condone your lecherous conduct.”

It was Pitt's turn to act surprised, but, instead he tossed his head back and laughed. “My apologies on every count, except slugging your perverted chauffeur. Willie had it coming.”

“You should not blame poor Willie. He was only acting on my orders to follow and guard Teri. She is my only living relative and I wish no harm to come to her.”

“What harm could possibly come to her?”

Von Till rose and walked to an open terrace window and looked out over the darkening sea. “Over half a century I have worked hard and paid a great personal price to build a substantial organization. Along the road I also accumulated a few enemies. I never know what one of them might do for revenge.”

Pitt's eyes searched von Till. “Is that why you carry a Luger in a shoulder holster?”

Von Till turned from the window and self-consciously adjusted his white dinner jacket over the bulge beneath his left armpit. “May I ask how you know it is a Luger?”

“Just a guess,” Pitt said. “You look like the Luger type.”

Von Till shrugged. “Ordinarily I do not act quite so mundane, but for the way Teri described you I had every reason to suspect doubtful character.”

“I must admit I've performed a few sinful deeds in my day,” Pitt said, grinning. “But murder and extortion weren't included.”

A scowl formed on von Till's face. “I do not think you would be so flippant if you…how do you Americans say…were in my shoes.”

“Your shoes are beginning to sound very mysterious, Herr von Till,” said Pitt. “Just what kind of business are you in?”

Suspicion marked von Till's eyes, then his lips faded to a phoney smile. “If I told you, it might upset your appetite. That, my dear Major, would make Teri exceedingly angry since she has spent half the afternoon in the kitchen overseeing tonight's dinner.” He shrugged in a typical European gesture. “Some other time, perhaps, when I know you better.”

Pitt spun the last swallow of scotch around in the glass and wondered what he had gotten himself into. Von Till, he decided, was either some kind of nut or a very shrewd operator.

“May I get you another drink?” asked von Till.

“Don't bother, I'll get it.” Pitt finished the drink and walked over to the bar and poured another. He stared at von Till. “From what I've read about World War I aviation, the circumstances behind the death of Kurt Heibert are nebulous. According to official German records, he was shot down by the British and crashed somewhere in the Aegean Sea. However, the records fail to mention the name of Heibert's victorious opponent. They also fail to state if the body was found.”

Von Till idly petted the dog. His eyes seemed lost in the past for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Kurt waged his own private war with the British back in 1918. He seldom flew against them coolly or efficiently. He handled his machine wildly and attacked their formations like a man possessed with a spastic devil. When he was in the air, he cursed and raved and pounded his fists on the edge of the cockpit until they bled. On takeoff he always revved his engine to a roaring full throttle so that his Albatros leaped off the ground like a frightened bird. And yet, when he was not on patrol and could forget the war for a few moments, he could be a man of great humor, much unlike your American conception of the German soldier.”

Pitt shook his head slowly with a hint of a smile. “You must forgive me, Herr von Till, but most of my comrades-in-arms have yet to meet a German soldier who was a barrel of laughs.”

The bald old German ignored Pitt's remark. His face remained serious. “The end for Kurt, when it came, was from a cunning British trick. They studied his tactics closely and soon learned that he had a weakness for attacking and destroying their observation ballons. A battle weary balloon was overhauled and the observer's basket was filled with high explosives and a uniformed dummy stuffed with weeds. A detonating wire ran to the ground and the British then sat and waited for Kurt to make an appearance.” Von Till sat down in a deeply pillowed sofa. He looked up at the ceiling, but he didn't see it. His mind looked, instead, into a sky that existed in 1918. “They did not have to wait long. Only one day later, Kurt flew over the allied lines and saw the balloon swinging slowly in the offshore breeze. He no doubt wondered why there was no ground fire. And the observer, leaning on the basket's railing, looked to be asleep, for he made no attempt to leap out and parachute to safety before Kurt's guns turned the hydrogen-filled bag into a cloud of fire.”

“He had no idea it was a trap?” asked Pitt.

“No,” von Till replied. “The balloon was there and it represented the enemy. Almost automatically, Kurt dove to the attack. He closed with the balloon and his Spandau machine guns began raking the thin skinned gas bag. Suddenly the balloon erupted in a thunderous explosion that covered the entire area in fire and smoke. The British had detonated the explosives.”

“Heibert crashed over the allied lines?” Pitt queried in thoughtful speculation.

“Kurt did not crash after the explosion,” von Till answered, shaking his mind back to the present again. “His Albatros burst through the inferno, but the gallant plane that carried him faithfully through so many air battles was badly shattered, and he was seriously wounded. With its fabric wings torn and tattered, its control surfaces blown off and a bloody pilot in the cockpit, the plane staggered over the Macedonian coastline and disappeared out to sea. The
Hawk of Macedonia
and his legendary yellow Albatros were never seen again.”

“At least not until yesterday.” Pitt took a deep breath and waited for an obvious reaction.

Von Till's eyelids widened on his otherwise expressionless face and he said nothing. He seemed to be weighing Pitt's words.

Pitt immediately came back to the original subject.

“Did you and Heibert often fly together?”

“Yes, we flew patrol together many times. We even used to take up a two seater Rumpler bomber and drop incendiary bombs on the British Aerodrome which was located right here on Thasos. Kurt would fly while I acted as observer and bombardier.”

“Where was your squadron based?”

“Kurt and I were posted to Jasta 73. We flew out of the Xanthi aerodrome in Macedonia.”

Pitt lit a cigarette. Then he looked at von Till's old, but erect figure. “Thank you for a very concise and detailed account of Heibert's death. You omitted nothing.”

“Kurt was a very dear friend,” von Till said wistfully. “I do not forget such things easily. I can even recall the exact date and time. It happened at 9:00 P.M. on July 15, 1918.”

“It seems strange that no one else knew the full story,” Pitt murmured, his eyes cold and steady with purpose. “The archives in Berlin and the British Air Museum in London have no information concerning the death of Heibert. All the books I've studied on the subject list him as missing in a mysterious situation similar to the other great aces, such as Albert Ball and Georges Guynemer.”

“Good God,” snapped von Till, exasperated. “The German archives lack the facts because the Imperial High Command never gave a damn about the war in Macedonia. And the British would never dare publish one word about such an unchivalrous deed. Besides, Kurt's plane was still in the air when they saw it last. The British could only assume their insidious plan was successful.”

“No trace of man or plane was ever found?”

“Nothing. Heibert's brother searched for him after the war, but Kurt's final resting place remains a mystery.”

“Was the brother also a flyer?”

“No. I met him on several occasions prior to the Second World War. He was a fleet officer in the German navy.”

Pitt fell silent. Von Till's story was too damn pat, he thought. He had the strange feeling that he was being used, like a wooden decoy on a flight of geese. A faint ominous tingling stirred inside him. He heard a tapping of high heels on the floor and without turning knew that Teri had entered the room.

“Hello everybody.” Her voice was light and cheerful.

Pitt swung around and faced her. She was wearing a minidress, designed like a Roman toga, that swirled about her slender legs. He liked the color—a golden orange that complemented her ebony hair. She looked at Pitt, her eyes immediately drawn to his uniform. Her face paled slightly, and she raised a hand to her mouth in the same gesture he had noticed on the beach. Then she smiled thinly and approached, radiating a beautiful and sexy warmth.

“Good evening gorgeous creature,” Pitt said lightly, taking her outstretched hand and kissing it.

Teri flushed, then looked up at his grinning face. “I was going to thank you for coming,” she said. “But now that I've seen through the naughty little trick you've played on me, I've a good notion to toss you out on your bloody—”

“Don't say it,” Pitt interrupted. His lips curved devilishly. “I know you won't believe me, but just this afternoon the base commander took me off the garbage truck, made me a pilot and promoted me to Major.”

She laughed. “Shame on you. You told me your rank was under that of a sergeant.”

“No. I only said that I've never been a sergeant, and that's the truth.”

She slipped her hand through Pitt's arm. “Has Uncle Bruno been boring you with his flying tales of the Great War?”

“Fascinating me maybe, but not boring,” Pitt answered. Her eyes looked scared behind her smile. He wondered what she was thinking.