D-Notice Bill Walker (online e book reading txt) 📖

Chapter Seven

It was nearly dawn when the Vickers-Wellington made its final approach into Lisbon’s Lisboa Aeroporto. An early morning fog blew in off the ocean, spreading ghostly tendrils through the city and into the surrounding hills. Though low on fuel, the Wellington had to make one circular pass before being allowed to land on the single oil-streaked runway.

When it taxied to a stop in front of the civilian terminal, Thorley watched as a cadre of Portuguese troops frog-marched out of the building and surrounded the plane. Flight Lieutenant Mullins powered down, appraised the bullet-smashed cockpit and the blood splashes on the instruments with a sad shake of his head, then climbed out of his seat and opened the hatch. Warm, sultry air wafted up through the hole, smelling of dead fish and aviation fuel. About to drop through, Flight Lieutenant Mullins hesitated, then turned to Thorley, eyeing him coolly.

“Ordinarily, I’d wish you luck, Major, like I do for all the others I’ve put down on foreign soil,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “Lord knows, it’s a tough, bloody war. But something about this mission has smelled to high heaven from the very start. Whatever it is you’re supposed to find, I hope you find it...and bloody well choke on it.” And then he dropped through the hatchway and was gone.

Thorley stood, smoothed out his uniform, and followed the pilot out of the aircraft in time to see him disappear into the terminal, escorted by two Portuguese soldiers. He couldn’t blame the man for his anger; he’d lost two good men, men for whom he cared deeply. Still, Thorley couldn’t hold back his own anger. After all, as Hildy had said, they all knew the risks when they signed up. So, what did the Flight mean when he said something about the mission smelled?

He was about to go after him to demand an explanation then decided against it. No doubt the man would refuse to speak to him, and besides, the Portuguese soldiers didn’t look as if they would let him pass. Suddenly tired, Thorley leaned against the skin of the Wellington and used the moment to scan his surroundings.

The plane sat fifty yards out from the terminal, a squat two-storey Mediterranean style building with stucco walls and red tile roof. Except for the equipment that would identify it as part of an airport, it looked like someone’s ramshackle villa. Beyond the terminal lay a chain-link fence and Lisbon proper. The city consisted of mostly low-profile Spanish-style buildings, radiating outward toward the hills where expensive homes sat perched on the hillsides. It seemed that every square block contained a church, for bells were ringing all over the city, calling the faithful to morning mass.

Thorley glanced at his watch. One hour till sunrise.

A moment later a Mercedes staff car rounded the building and headed for them. The Portuguese soldiers parted to let the Mercedes through, then closed ranks. The car came to a halt in front of Thorley, the rear door opened and out stepped a wiry little man in a charcoal pin-stripe suit carrying an attaché case. His eyes blinked rapidly behind gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his hair was so saturated with pomade that it looked as if it were lacquered. The man smiled and stepped toward Thorley, his hand motions reptile quick.

“Ah, Major Thorley!” he said, his English almost impenetrable. “Did you have a pleasant flight, Senhor?”

Thorley couldn’t believe the man. Either he was supremely myopic, or unctuous in the extreme. All the little fool had to do was look at the plane.

“Senhor Velasquez, I presume?”

Velasquez positively beamed, convincing Thorley that the man simply did not wish to acknowledge the gore-spattered Wellington, the mark of a true diplomat.

Velasquez bowed from the waist. “At your service, Senhor Major. Please, come with me.”

Thorley hesitated, staring back at the plane and its crew. “What about them?”

“They will be taken care of, Senhor. Everything is arranged.”

“No doubt,” Thorley said, shooting him a cold look.

“Major, please, we must go.”

Thorley moved toward the Mercedes. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Once they were ensconced inside the car, it sped off toward the other end of the airport. Thorley took a last look at the Wellington, hoping Velasquez was as good as his word. The little man seemed to have put the matter behind him, as he began speaking volubly about everything from fine wines to expensive cigars. Finally, his monologue returned to more serious matters. “...I do hope you realize that this is all highly irregular. Entertaining members of belligerent nations on neutral soil.... Very, very awkward. I have taken considerable risks to facilitate this....”

“It’s a little late to renegotiate your fee, Velasquez.”

The little man threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no, Senhor! You misunderstand. I am happy to oblige, but I do not wish our neutrality to be challenged.”

“You have nothing to fear from us....”

The rest of Thorley’s retort died on his lips as he spotted the plane up ahead parked inconspicuously between two corrugated steel hangars. It was a Heinkel He 111, the pride of Göring’s Luftwaffe. Powered by two 1350 horsepower Jumo engines, with a wingspan over seventy-four feet, it was capable of bombing London from deep inside France with over 4400 pounds of explosives—a devastating payload whose destructive force Thorley had experienced far too many times.

His throat went dry when he spotted a Luftwaffe Major inspecting the aircraft with the plane’s pilot. As the staff car halted a few yards from the right wingtip, the Major looked up, appraising them with a cool and calculating eye.

Inside the staff car, Thorley reached for the door handle. “It’s been a pleasure, Senhor Velasquez. Just make sure that I never have cause to regret that statement.”

Velasquez blanched,