07 Gimlet Bores In Read online

  CHAPTER I A FRIEND IN NEED

  CAPTAIN Lorrington King, D.S.O., M.C., (Retired) one time "Gimlet,"

  leader of the commando troop known as King's "Kittens," looked in turn at the faces of the three men who shared his luncheon table at the Ritz Hotel, London. They were Nigel, otherwise "

  Cub," Peters; ex-corporal Albert, otherwise "Copper," Colson (a Cockney and proud of it) and "Trapper" Troublay, the French-Canadian who spoke French—with a trans-Atlantic drawl—as well as he spoke English. All were looking older than in the days of the desperate events that had brought them together, and had welded them into a team that had more than once left its marks on the enemy.

  Gimlet permitted his habitually austere expression to relax a little as he looked at them.

  "I suppose you fellows are waiting for me to tell you why I asked you to meet me here today?" he remarked, in an easy voice that could, however, be as brittle as ice when occasion demanded.

  "I 'oped it wouldn't jest be ter tell me ter get me 'air cut, sir,"

  answered Copper, grinning.

  The others laughed.

  "No, but now you come to mention it, it wouldn't be a bad idea if you had a little more off," replied Gimlet. "That quoif you sport may, you may think, enhance your natural beauty, but to me it's an excrescence that could well be dispensed with."

  Copper's hand went to the tuft of hair referred to. "That's a bit tough,"

  he growled indignantly. "I only 'ad it cut yesterday."

  There was more laughter.

  "All right! that's enough fun. Let's get down to business," announced Gimlet, suddenly becoming serious. "I had a reason for asking you to come here. The fact is, I've been asked by a certain government department to do a little job, and have promised to do it.

  It's quite a special bit of business and may turn out to be exciting. I need hardly say that it's very much under the hat. I've been working on the thing for some days, getting organised, thinking it might be better to go alone; but on second thoughts I decided to ask you fellows if you'd care to come along. I can't give you very long to make up your minds because I shall be starting in the morning."

  "You can reckon on me, sir, wherever you're going, if you want me," said Cub promptly.

  "Same 'ere," put in Copper.

  Trapper clicked his tongue, a trick he had learned from Indian friends in his boyhood in the backwoods. "Mc too," he murmured.

  "Very well," resumed Gimlet, dropping his voice a tone. "In that case I'll give you the gen. This, briefly, is the proposition, and, as you will see, it really boils down to a matter of house breaking in a biggish sort of way. In a rather backward corner of Eastern Europe there is a medieval fortress. It was built, the experts say, in the days of the Crusaders. How true that is I neither know nor care, but from all accounts it is a pretty formidable mass of stone. Who occupied it in the past I haven't troubled to enquire. I'm only interested in the present, and at the moment it is being used as a sort of political prison. Prisoners who go in are seldom seen again. It's that sort of prison. In it, if our information is correct, there is confined a gentleman whose crime consists of

  nothing more than he has for a long time favoured the Western democratic way of life, and is, therefore, well disposed towards the Western powers.

  Of this he has made no secret, with the result that he incurred the severe displeasure of those who would, if they could, push us off the map. Our people want to get him out, and rightly so, for if no attempt is made to rescue him it is unlikely that he will be seen again. We do not abandon our friends. I am going to get him out. If I fail, I may find myself inside as well.

  Do you still want to come?"

  "More than ever," asserted Cub.

  "Too bloomin' true," swore Copper. "Am I right, Trapper?"

  "Zut. Every time," agreed Trapper warmly.

  "Very well, then; here are the details," continued Gimlet. "The name of the man in question is Muraz Ismit. His nationality is Turkish. Indeed, he was until recently a member of the Turkish government. Some years ago he was their representative in London, where he is still remembered as a very charming gentleman. As a matter of detail he was in business before he went into politics, being, among other things, head of the firm that makes the well-known Consolides brands of Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes, with offices in London. He speaks English well. We needn't go into politics, but you may be sure that his pro-Western sentiments automatically make him the enemy of Turkey's powerful neighbour in the East. Had he been a man of less importance no doubt he would by now have been liquidated by methods so often practised by totalitarian states; but in the case of Ismit Pasha this would not have been easy without risking a major sensation. It was by sheer bad luck that the Pasha fell into the hands of his enemies. This is how it came about.

  "The Pasha has always been a keen yachtsman, and being a rich man was able to indulge in that rather expensive pastime. He had his own yacht, which was normally kept at moorings at Samsu, on the Turkish Black Sea coast. He rarely left the Black Sea. Some two months ago he went off on one of his trips. A westerly gale sprang up and the yacht was lost with all hands—or so it was supposed when it did not return. One of the crew was washed overboard and was later picked up by a fishing vessel. He was thought to be the only survivor. The yacht, he said, when he went overboard, was dismasted, and driving fast towards the rocky Caucasian coast that bounds the eastern end of the Black Sea. On the face of it there didn't seem much hope for the Pasha. Still, he was a good sailor and a strong swimmer, so for a time it was hoped that he might have got ashore.

  But as the weeks passed without word of him all such hopes were gradually abandoned.

  "Now the Caucasus is a wild collection of states under the control of people who have no love for us—or the Pasha; and for that reason they would no doubt be delighted to have him fall into their hands. That, in fact, unless we have been misinformed, is what did happen. We are not without friends in Eastern Europe, sometimes called the Near East, and presently a whisper reached us that Ismit Pasha was a prisoner in the hands of his enemies. Our Intelligence people got cracking and we are now in possession of information which makes it pretty sure that the Pasha is a prisoner in the ancient fortress of Kalashan, which stands in the mountains some distance back from the coast."

  "Wot sort of place is this Corkasus?" asked Copper. "I never 'eard tell of it."

  "For more reasons than one, very few Western Europeans have got far into it," answered Gimlet. "As far as the actual terrain is concerned it's mostly an area of mountains and valleys at the junction of the three continents, Europe, Asia and Africa. The place is divided into a number of small republics with names not easy to remember. We needn't trouble about them. Strictly speaking, they are part of the Soviet Union, but how far the local chieftains take orders from Moscow is open to question.

  They may give the occupying Soviet officials lip-service, but it is probable that they play their own game behind their backs. The people of the country, having been overrun by powerful neighbours many times during the course of history, must be pretty good at what in France they called the Resistance. For them, freedom is everything, with the result that the land is overrun with bandits, malcontents, and refugees of one sort or another. To them, I understand, all visitors are enemies, and treated as such. Each petty chief rules his own roost and protects what he holds in the usual manner of such people. In other words, they're a pretty rough lot."

  "I take it it would be no use asking for passports, to go in as tourists?" questioned Cub.

  "If we asked the Soviet for passports they would be refused," declared Gimlet. "On the other hand, if we go without passports we should be treated as enemy agents. We need have no doubt about that, so w
e do at least know how we stand from the start. The local people themselves are a queer lot, being a mixture of half the races on earth—white, brown, yellow and black, according to locality. As a result of isolation in their mountains they're at least a century behind the times, and their methods are, shall we say, inclined to be old-fashioned."

  "Do you know who actually owns this fortress where the Pasha is reported to be a prisoner?" asked Cub.

  "No. It stands in the Republic of Zabkatnitza, but no doubt it has been taken over by the governing authority. Apparently it is a place of some size."

  Copper grunted. "I reckon anything could 'appen in a joint with a name like that. Wot say you, Trapper ole pal?"

  "Sure, and then some," agreed Trapper.

  "From our angle it doesn't matter two hoots who the place belongs to,"

  asserted Gimlet. "

  We must assume that once we are in the territory every man will be our enemy. All I know is, the fortress is

  there, and if our man is in it we've got to get him out."

  "If these stiffs 'ate the sight of the Pasha why don't they bump 'im off and 'ave done with it?" queried Copper.

  "Once he has been forgotten no doubt they'll do that, unless, of course, they decide that he may one day be a valuable hostage," answered Gimlet.

  "Or maybe he will be used as a bargaining lever in some political argument. I don't know, and it doesn't really matter.

  We may learn something more about it when we get there. As I told you, I'm not interested in the political angle. I'm only concerned with getting the unfortunate fellow out and handing him back to his wife and family."

  "Does anyone live in this jail?" asked Copper, picking a tooth thoughtfully.

  "If it is being used as a prison it can hardly be a residence—apart from the governor and his staff," replied Gimlet. "There may be other prisoners. In fact, there are pretty certain to be. In that case there is bound to be a fairly strong garrison there. It wouldn't surprise me if it turned out to be a barracks as well."

  "Soldiers, eh?" murmured Copper pensively. "Be interestin' ter see wot they know about soldierin'. Maybe we could show 'em a thing or two. Wot do we do if they cut up rough?"

  "Naturally we shall do our best to avoid contact with them," returned Gimlet. "If that proves impossible, what we do will depend largely on what they do."

  "Hm. As far as I can see there won't be no need ter do much talkin',"

  muttered Copper. "

  They must be a lot of rats ter put a bloke in quod for 'avin' an opinion of 'is own."

  Gimlet smiled bleakly. "Having an opinion of your own is a dangerous thing in more than one European country today," he observed grimly.

  "Anyhow, that's how it is."

  "Does the Turkish government know anything about this?" asked Cub.

  "I don't think so," answered Gimlet slowly. "Our Intelligence people are pretty hot on security, and they didn't tell even me more than was necessary. Obviously, the fewer the people who know about it the less chance is there of a spy getting wind of it. I'm seeing our people again before we leave and they may tell me more then."

  "How are we going to get to this place?" asked Cub.

  "That's all been worked out," Gimlet told him. "We shall fly. It's the only way, and in that matter we've been lucky. The flying boat that takes us out will be under the command of a man who has had more experience at this sort of thing than anybody. You remember Bigglesworththe man they call Biggles? He gave us a hand more than once during the war."

  "Ha! I ain't likely ter ferget 'im," averred Copper. "Cool customer, if ever I see one. I remember you and 'is pal, Lord Bertie something or-other, natterin' about fox 'untin' one night when 'ell was fairly poppin'

  all round us."

  Gimlet smiled. "There was probably nothing better to talk about at the time. But let's not start talking about old times or we shall be here all night. Bigglesworth is going to take us out and put us down conveniently near the coast. We shall go ashore in a landing craft—probably a rubber dinghy. I've left that part of the operation, and the business of picking us up again later, to him. That's for his department."

  "When you talk about being picked up later, how long do you reckon the job's going to take?" asked Cub.

  "I've no idea," admitted Gimlet. "It might be only a day or two or it may be a month. It depends on how things pan out. Naturally, I shall make allowance for that in my arrangements with Bigglesworth. We shall have to take ashore with us everything we're likely to need. That includes food.

  I shall attend to that. As I see it now we shall have to work mostly in the dark, lying up in cover by day—at any rate, until we locate the objective. But here again, it's not easy to make a plan until we get to the country and see just what we have to do. There seems to be some doubt as to the actual spot where the fort stands, and as the country is all mountains and valleys, as I've told you, it may take us some time to find the place. And when we have found it it may take us even longer to get into it."

  "How about asking Bigglesworth to locate the place and get us a photograph from the air?" suggested Cub.

  Gimlet shook his head. "He would do that, no doubt, if I asked him; but the presence of an unknown aircraft over the district might do more harm than good, by warning the enemy that someone is interested in the place.

  At the moment the people holding the Pasha must be smiling, because officially everyone supposes that he is dead. I'd rather the enemy went on thinking that he's got everyone fooled. Once he suspects that we know the truth our difficulties would be doubled. But I think I've said enough to go on with. We can discuss the matter further on the way out."

  "Wot exactly is the drill, sir?" asked Copper.

  "Go home, get a good night's rest, and meet me at eight o'clock tomorrow morning at Victoria Station, in front of the indicator board. I shall be there, with tickets for Southampton."

  "Full marching order?"

  "Yes, but don't make it too obvious. Imagine it's nineteen forty-five and we are detailed for a sortie on the French coast—without visible armament."

  Copper rubbed his big hands together. "Battle dress and my ole green beret for me. That'

  s the stuff. Strike ole Riley! This is goin' ter be like ole times. Wot say you, Trapper, ole partner?"

  Trapper clicked his tongue. "Tch! You've said it, pal," he agreed.

  CHAPTER II

  THE COAST OF DOUBT

  BLACK night had thrown its cloak over that part of the earth where East meets West, wherein lies the Sea which, appropriately as it seemed to Cub, is called Black. Below was an inky void, a vast, mysterious pool devoid of life, unmarked by a single spark of friendly light to prove that it was occupied by men. Overhead a few stars blinked mistily through a tattered curtain of alto-cirrus cloud that hung in space across the universe.

  Cub, who by special request had been privileged to sit for a little while in the cockpit of the flying boat that was taking the party to its objective, had only the pilot's word for it that they were over water. He could not see it. In fact, he could see nothing beyond his immediate surroundings, illuminated faintly by an eerie reflected light from the instrument panel, where a bewildering array of dials glowed steadily, like a battery of railway signals at a busy junction. From these only occasionally did the pilot lift his eyes, to gaze ahead or into the surrounding gloom. How, after hours of boring through utter darkness, at a speed of three miles a minute, he still knew where he was, was a mystery Cub did not attempt to solve.

  The only sound was the monotonous drone of engines, although this had been going on for so long as to become scarcely noticeable. When they died, as abruptly as a water tap turned off, giving way to a silence that was startling after so much noise, he looked at the pilot expectantly, and perhaps a trifle nervously, wondering if something had gone wrong.

  Biggles returned the glance, smiling faintly at Cub's unspoken question.

  "I'm going down, although we shan't be on the water for some t
ime yet,"

  he said. "We've still a little way to go. You'd better go aft, now, and ask Ginger to come back to his seat."

  "Right you are, sir," answered Cub, and went back to the cabin, where, having delivered his message, he found a seat near Copper and Trapper who were playing two-handed pontoon on rucksacks that had been piled to make a table.

  Gimlet spoke from where he was studying a map. "All right, you fellows, pack up now,"

  he ordered. "We must be getting close."

  Copper stacked the cards, and ruefully handed over to Trapper nine cigarettes that apparently he had lost to him. This done, and the cards put away, he began to sort the luggage.

  "It seems a quiet sort of night," remarked Gimlet. "A choppy sea would have given us a damp start." He looked at his wrist watch. "One o'clock,"

  he observed. "Nice time. The moon should be up in about an hour."

  They sat down to steady themselves while the

  machine landed. Presently, a sharp hiss announced that the keel had touched water. A moment later the sound came again, this time prolonged, while the aircraft lost way quickly. Another minute and it was at rest, rocking gently.

  Copper and Trapper began at once to make ready the rubber dinghy that was to take them ashore.

  Biggles came into the cabin. "Here we are," he said, speaking to Gimlet.

  "There's nothing in sight as far as I can see. No wind, sea calm and visibility good, although it's still too dark to see much. From topsides I could just see the coast, straight ahead. I reckon it's about three miles—maybe a trifle less. This is as near as I dare go without risk of being heard when I take off. I'm in no great hurry so you can take your time. As long as I'm at my moorings by daylight that's all that matters as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to be seen going back by anyone on either side of the Sea of Marmora."

  "Got far to go?" asked Gimlet.

  "A fair way. Officially, I'm due to call at one of the Greek marine aircraft bases with a view to showing them some new equipment. They may guess that something's going on, but they won't ask questions." Biggles laughed softly. "A lot of funny things are going on in this part of the world at the moment. But don't worry about me. I shall be back to pick you up. You'll find me here every third day between twelve midnight and one. If for any reason you get into trouble ashore, and can't get out to me, make a signal and I'll come in for you."