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Page 51.

Both men slapped Tim goodnaturedly on the back. Together, like old kumpels (comrades), they They climbed on board a gray-green Junkers 52 whose Luftwaffe markings had been painted over in matte black. Mauritanian and French markings had been stenciled on in smallish white letters and numbers.

Walther pulled the steel ladder up. Willi locked the main door of the plane, while Walther climbed among the stacked crates and packages under a row of overhead lights, until he reached the highest little oblong compartment, which had a picture of a fire extinguisher on it. Using a skeleton key, he unlocked the door, which fell open to reveal what looked like a pile of bowling pins lying stacked on their sides. Walther took two of them down and slammed the door shut. He jumped down with a look of triumph on his face. “The fire must be extinguished, ja?”

Willi pulled out a crate marked as containing delicate glass. Walther unwrapped the checked towels from the restaurant. “Plenty here for the three of us, if you are hungry.”

The bowling pins turned out to be bottles of some exotic Central African beer, wrapped in men’s undergarments. Walther threw the long johns in a pile behind the pilot seats up front. “We Germans cannot breathe without our beer. These local barbarians drink nothing but coffee and tea, and they smoke hashish until their eyeballs explode, but they are very saintly about not touching the holy brew.”

Corks popped in quick succession, and the interior smelled of food and beer. Tim closed his eyes with delight. “I’m suddenly developing an appetite.” The two men laughed heartily and toasted him.

Willi continued their brief biography. “We saw that the Italians could not hold North Africa, and Rommel did not have enough supplies. Hitler kept pushing him to do the impossible in the wrong places with the wrong equipment, which is why Germany is losing the war, so we took our Tante Ju (Auntie Junkers) here and headed south instead of north. We had four paratroopers and a supply of documents on board. With half a million men and much equipment being captured or fleeing, who was going to miss us? We let the paratroopers out in Morocco, because they had dreams of defecting to the Spaniards. We dumped the documents out in mid-air over the Atlas-Chouf mountains, where nobody will ever read them. And then we headed south to start our little business.”

“That’s right,” Walther added enthusiastically after a big swallow of beer and wiping foam from his mouth with a hairy forearm. “Now we need only a little more funding and we buy a second plane. Then we are in business for real.”

“After the war, we go back to Germany and start a Konkurrenz with Lufthansa if they still exist, ja?”

Tim was just about to ask what kind of business they hoped to conduct, when there came a loud and frantic banging at the door.

“Schnell!” Walther said, pushing the bottles across to his cousin, who swooped around and hid them under the pile of underwear behind the seats. “Quick! If the Arabs see alcohol they will go berserk. It’s their religion to hate this holy liquid.”

The banging on the side door continued until Willi slid it open. “Ja, Mensch. What is your problem tonight, my friends?”

A squad of native gendarmes in flowing white garments sat on camels outside, brandishing swords and muskets. Nearby stood a blocky, dark-green personnel carrier with French Foreign Legion (Vichy) markings. In an open, round hatch on top, a helmeted shape loomed over a Châtellerault Model 1924/29 calibre-7.5x54 machine gun with its dipod folded back—mounted on the rim of the hatch, and capable of a 360 degree field of fire, using a 150-round drum magazine. Several men on foot or camel wore Spanish Foreign Legion-style khaki garrison caps with a tassel hanging from a front fold of the hat. Two military policemen in French Foreign Legion uniform (Vichy) accompanied them, brandishing German Schmeisser rifles. An officer in regular French (Vichy) army uniform led the group. The officer, a boyish, blond first lieutenant, looked crisp and European, his skin noticeably pale compared with the other men’s. “Bonjour, Monsieurs,” he said. “We look for a criminal who escaped from custody of Monsieur Nasr Tandileh a few hours ago. He is armed and dangerous. May I see your papers please?”

Walther grumbled. “Of course, Mon Colonel.” He patted himself on the pockets and exchanged glances with his cousin. “Willi, wo sind denn die Papiere?” “Where are the papers then, Willi?”

“I have them put away already for the flight,” Willi said. “Hold on, I’ll get them.”

The lieutenant looked at Tim and saluted, palm out, fingertips smartly touching the short black bill of his kepi. “Monsieur, you have your papers?”

“Monsieur Malone is with us,” Walther said gruffly, handing three passports and three sets of oilcloth-covered documents down to the lieutenant, who stood snappily examining them.

“Who are you, Monsieur Malone?” the lieutenant said without looking up from the documents.

Willi whispered to Tim from behind: “Don’t let him rattle you. He just wants to go back to his whores and his cognac.”

The lieutenant looked up. “Major Malone, U.S. Army?” He waved the passport. “This is not in order. I could suspect you of spying. Why would I not?”

Tim felt his stomach sinking.