Chapter 1

The Air Commodore sets the scene

When Biggles - Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., D.F.C., to give him his proper name and rank - when Biggles landed after making a short early morning test flight to check certain adjustments that had been made to his Spitfire, he had nothing on his mind of greater significance than breakfast.

"She's still inclined to fly a bit left wing low," he told the sergeant rigger, as he shed his parachute and walked slowly towards the mess.

He altered his direction abruptly when Toddy, the Station Adjutant, emerged from the door of the squadron office and gestured urgently to him. "Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, has been on the phone for you," Toddy told him. "He wants you to go up to the Air Ministry straight away."

Immediately upon arriving at Air Intelligence Headquarters, Biggles was shown directly to the Air Commodore's private office, as was customary. Air Commodore Raymond gave him a smile of welcome as he rose from his desk and came to meet Biggles.

"Glad to see you looking so well," he said cheerfully. "I take it that you've fully recovered from that scratch you got in Monaco last month? And how is young Henri Ducoste settling in? I understand that he asked for a posting to 666 Squadron when he got out of hospital."

"I'm sure he'll fit in very well, sir," replied Biggles quietly. "I've given him a couple of weeks leave. You wouldn't know, of course, but his mother and sister were killed in a raid on London the day that he joined the squadron."

"How dreadful," murmured the Air Commodore, rather awkwardly. "No, I didn't know. How is he holding up?"

"Fairly well, I think. I'm more worried about Hebblethwaite. He was rather attached to Henri's sister Jeanette, and he's taken it very hard. He refuses to take any leave, and he's flying like a madman and drinking too much."

"Oh dear. What a sorry business. Do you want me to arrange to have Hebblethwaite posted to a training establishment until he gets over this?"

"To a flying training school? No, sir, I'm afraid that would only make things worse."

The Air Commodore shook his head sadly. "Very well, Bigglesworth, I won't interfere."

Then, with a change of tone, he went on crisply. "Take a seat, and I'll tell you what all this is about. Have a cigarette?"

"Thanks," Biggles lit his cigarette and pulled up a chair.

From his pocket the Air Commodore took an envelope, and opened it. Into the palm of his left hand he poured a number of tiny stones. The largest was about the size of a pea. He held it up. As the light fell on it, in some strange way it seemed to glow.

"What on earth are they?" asked Biggles.

"Diamonds," answered the Air Commodore. "Uncut diamonds. These are not gemstones. They are commercial diamonds. What I have to say about them will take a little time. Bring your chair round to this side of the desk so that you can follow me on the map when I refer to it."

As Biggles settled back into in his chair he looked at the map which, its corners held down by paper-weights, covered most of the top of the desk, and recognised South America.

"Right you are, sir, I'm ready," he announced.

The Air Commodore spoke quietly. "This story is mostly fact but padded with a certain amount of surmise dropped in to fill the gaps. However, it all ties up pretty well. I need hardly tell you that commercial diamonds are indispensable for high-class industrial purposes - fine engineering work, and the like - and they are in great demand at the moment. Everybody wants diamonds. About three months ago our agents in Germany reported that commercial diamonds, previously in short supply, had suddenly become abundant. At about the same time, our people in the United States informed us that a new supply of uncut diamonds was coming onto the American market. They think the diamonds are getting into the United States through Cuba, where we know there is some support for the Nazis. Certainly, the money seems to be finding its way into German hands. The quality of the stones is variable and most of them seem to be poor stuff, only good for diamond chips, which makes our gem experts pretty sure they don't come from South-West Africa. However, with the world in its present state, even diamond chips are worth having."

Raymond paused, and tapped the map with a pencil. "We know there were some German companies prospecting for diamonds in these areas - here, in southern Argentina - before the war started. There's plenty of volcanic activity around the Andes, as you can imagine, and prospectors have for a long time had hopes of finding a big field of diamondiferous gravel in that part of the world. We think the Germans have established a diamond mine in Argentina, and are running some of the rough diamonds up to the United States, via Cuba, by U-boat. Others they're getting back to Germany. Naturally, we want to stop these shipments. First, they help the German war machine. Second, the Germans are desperate for hard cash, as are we, and they seem to be raising quite a lot through these diamond sales - money that will enable the Nazi leaders to buy badly needed commodities from neutral countries. The money is not, of course, going through legitimate channels. The Americans sequested Nazi assets when they came into the war, but that won't stop this business."

"Very interesting. But what has this to do with me?"

"I'm coming to that if you'll bear with me a little longer. For one thing, there's a good chance that the Germans are using aircraft to get the diamonds from the mine to the coast, to the U-Boats."

Raymond indicated the map again. "Unfortunately, we don't have any very precise idea of where this mine might be located. The Argentine government granted permits before the war to explore for diamonds in the headwaters of the Deseado, Belgrano, Blanco, Challa, Santa Cruz, Coig and Brizo Sur Rivers. The most northerly of these is the Deseado, which runs into the sea at Bahia Blanca. The southernmost is the Brizo Sur, right down here near Rio Gallegos. That's rather a lot of ground to cover. All I can really say is that the areas under investigation were all in the lower foothills of the Andes. The stones are not born there, as you might say. They would have been washed down by floodwaters through ages of time from higher up in the mountains. Anyway, it's a long way to the Argentinian coast, over some pretty rough country. The fastest and safest mode of transport for a cargo like uncut diamonds is by air."

"How would the Germans get aircraft out to Argentina? You can't get aircraft into a U-boat."

"They could have taken them out in crates before the war. We suspect that shortly before war was declared the Germans sent large quantities of military stores out to various South American countries and cached them against future requirements. The German Secret Service has been pretty active in South America. Or they may be using aircraft, possible British or American machines, that they've bought in the Americas. The Argentine airforce bought some German planes just before the war, they may have got hold of some of those. There are any number of possibilities."

"Why not sink the U-boats?"

"Easier said than done. A fleet of destroyers could cruise the Argentine coast for months and not find them. And we can't spare destroyers – they're needed for convoy escort duty in the north Atlantic and the Mediterranean."

"So what do you expect me to do?" queried Biggles, lighting another cigarette.

"Find the mine, and knock the German transport craft out of the sky," responded the Air Commodore.

"How am I going to do that?"

"Our nearest territory is the Falkland Islands," replied the Air Commodore. "We have, as you know, a naval base there, at Port Stanley, on East Falkland. It has facilities for landing marine aircraft. There's also a small airfield. Apart from that, there really isn't a plan. If you take on the job, I'm content to leave the thing in your hands. Make your own arrangements. You can have anything you need in the way of equipment, within reason."

Biggles looked at the map again, and raised his eyebrows. "But Port Stanley is 300 miles north-east of the Magellan Strait, and nearly 500 miles from Rio Gallegos, which seems to be the nearest point on the Argentinian mainland. I'd need to operate from an aircraft carrier," he murmured, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Bigglesworth, I can't give you an aircraft carrier," replied the Air Commodore with a touch of asperity.

Biggles considered the Air Commodore with a wry smile. "I don't think I've ever said this before, sir, but don't you think, in asking me to take this on, you're asking too much? If the Germans are using an amphibious aircraft, it could rendezvous with the U-boat at a different place every time. It would be impossible to catch it."

"I've thought of that," declared Air Commodore Raymond. "I consider it unlikely, though, because of the quantity of diamonds that the Germans are thought to be shipping. There's a lot of romantic nonsense talked about gemstones, you know. Only one big stone in a hundred is worth much. If a diamond has flaws in it, if you try to cut it down to get a perfect piece, it's liable to fly to dust and you find you're left with nothing."

"How does that happen?"

"Because the flaws are minute pin-holes of compressed air, ready to explode if they're touched. The upshot is, a diamond cutter may need to sort through a lot of rubbish before coming up with a good stone."

Raymond picked up a slip of paper from his desk. "I've made some inquiries about this. Here are last year's production figures for Alexander Bay, the diamond field at the mouth of the Orange River: 2,435 tons of gravel yielded only 26,967 carats of industrial diamonds, 5,314 carats of second grade gem quality diamonds and 2,371 carats of first grade gem quality diamonds. The year before, 2,219 tons of gravel yielded only 24,755 carats of industrial diamonds, 4,998 carats of second grade gem quality diamonds and 2,051 carats of first grade gem quality diamonds. And Alexander Bay is the most valuable diamond field in the world!"

Raymond stubbed his cigarette and continued. "It seems most likely that the Germans are ferrying the entire production of uncut stones to a dump on the coast, and then loading the U-boats with a sufficient quantity to make the trip worthwhile. The diamonds are only sorted for quality when they get to their destination. It's questionable that an amphibious craft small and handy enough to get down on a rough airstrip somewhere in the wilds of southern Argentina could carry a sufficient load to justify a once-off rendezvous with a U-boat at sea. As you would know better than I, flying-boats and amphibians do fine for mails and first class passengers, but not for bulk merchandise."

"Even so, there are huge difficulties in operating effectively from the Falkland Islands," responded Biggles. "It would help me if I knew how far you are prepared to go."

"As far as you think necessary."

"Do you mean that - literally?"

"Well - er - yes."

"I don't think it will be possible to carry out this mission without making use of Argentine territory," Biggles replied slowly.

Air Commodore Raymond shrugged. "I don't care if you go into Argentina. We're prepared to antagonise the Argentines if necessary, although obviously we'd prefer not to. Remember, the diamonds are all that matters. Everything else is secondary."

"Even so, there are some obvious problems in running military operations in neutral airspace," answered Biggles drily, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand. "If the Argentines got their hands on me, I'd spend the rest of the war in an internment camp. I find that a very unattractive proposition."

"If the Argentines get hold of you, you may find internment is the least of your problems," replied the Air Commodore in a serious tone. "There are plenty of German settlements in South America - and Argentina is no exception. There are British interests there, of course, but there are also many Germans and people of German parentage. We have our friends there, and the Germans have theirs. Further, Argentina being a Spanish-speaking country, the Argentine government is naturally on good terms with General Franco, and we know where his sympathies lie. You might recall that the crew of the Admiral Graf Spee bolted to Argentina after she was scuttled in Montevideo harbour."

"Here, take a look at this." The Air Commodore pushed a photograph over his desk towards Biggles. It showed a tall, slim man, perhaps a little older than Biggles, with a keen, alert, handsome face and close-cropped hair. He was elegantly dressed in the field-grey uniform of a German officer and appeared to be engaged in close conversation with a swarthy, pompous-looking little man, with a flowing black moustache. The man was in evening dress, and the occasion was evidently a party or official function of some kind. Champagne glasses were in evidence, and other people could be seen in the background, also formally dressed.

"Recognise anybody?" asked the Air Commodore, whimsically.

Biggles studied the photograph for some time without speaking and without a change of expression. "Of course. Our old friend Erich von Stalhein, no less - all dressed up in his glad rags. How did this enchanting picture come into your hands, and what has it got to do with this affair?"

"It was taken by one of our agents in Argentina."

Air Commodore Raymond smiled slightly. "As it so happens, the society photographer of a leading Buenos Aires daily newspaper. He took it at a ball given at the German Embassy in Buenos Aires to celebrate Hitler's birthday, three months ago. The other man is Joachim del Vargos, the Argentine Air Minister. Our agent reports than von Stalhein spent the whole evening with del Vargos. Consequently, we suspect that if the Germans are operating aircraft in some remote part of Argentina, it is with the tacit knowledge and approval of at least some elements of the Argentine government."

"But if the Argentines are so friendly with the Germans, why don't they take the diamonds out through the front door, through Buenos Aires or another major port?"

"I can think of a few good reasons. Not all elements of the Argentine government are sympathetic to the Nazis. It might be difficult to ignore cargoes of uncut diamonds passing through the port of Buenos Aires. Further, we have agents in Buenos Aires and every other decent sized city. They haven't heard a thing about diamonds being smuggled out. No, it makes much more sense to quietly slip the diamonds over to the coast by air and discreetly load them onto a U-boat in some remote location, far from prying eyes."

"What about local knowledge? My Spanish is reasonable, and we spent a bit of time in Central and South America before the war but I've never been in Argentina."

"I can arrange to put you in touch with our people in Buenos Aires, who will give you all the information they have. By the way, your old acquaintance Carruthers - I understand you helped him out a while ago with a little trouble in British Honduras - has moved across to the Foreign Office, and is attached to the British Embassy in Buenos Aires."

"I still don't like the idea of this," replied Biggles lugubriously. "Shooting up a lot of neutrals is not my idea of the way to run a war."

"I'm not asking you to shoot up a lot of neutrals," the Air Commodore responded quickly. "My dear Bigglesworth, we've got to fight the enemy with his own weapons. All I'm asking you to do is locate the mine, intercept the plane flying the diamonds to the coast and shoot it down. It will almost certainly be flown by a German agent, not an Argentinian national."

"Very well," Biggles acknowledged, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'll go and have a look at the map, get the thing sized up, and let you know what I think. To tell the truth, sir, I should be glad of an opportunity to get Hebblethwaite away from his Spitfire for a while."

"Will you take the whole squadron out with you?"

Biggles shook his head. "I don't think so, sir. This seems to be a job for a small team."

He got up to leave, and as an afterthought added, "May I take this photograph? Lacey and Hebblethwaite might be interested in seeing it."

"Of course, Bigglesworth."

Biggles picked up the photograph, saluted, and left Raymond's office.

He returned to the airfield at Rawlham just before lunch and went straight to his office, where he found Algy and Ginger, anticipating his return.

"I imagine that Air House has had another rush of blood to the brain," Algy observed. "What dizzy scheme have they thought of now?"

"Not dizzy - say interesting," responded Biggles, reaching for a cigarette.

"Where are we going?"

"Argentina."

Algy frowned. "But that's neutral territory."

Biggles smiled and blew a smoke ring. "So I'm told. That's why it should be interesting. And there is another reason why it should be interesting."

Before Biggles could go on there was an interruption from the door. It was opened, and the effeminate face of Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie grinned a greeting into the room.

"What cheer, how goes it, and all that?" he murmured.

Biggles regarded him reflectively and said, "As a matter of fact, Bertie, we're off to Argentina shortly, and a fourth pilot would be useful. It's a special operation, and that recent business in Monaco has given you a bit of experience in that area. You had better stay and listen to this."

Bertie flicked up his eye-glass with approval and caught it in his eye. "Goody-goody," he murmured. "Argentina is in South America, where the jolly old bananas come from. That's me, every time."

"Don't flatter your appetite," Biggles told him seriously. "This is no fruity frolic. Further, it appears that the Argentines may not be particularly hospitable."

Biggles produced the photograph of von Stalhein and Joachim del Vargos, and placed it carefully on his desk. "This is a photo of an old friend of ours on the other side by the name of Erich von Stalhein getting very chummy with the Argentine Air Minister."

Bertie gazed at the photograph for a moment, and then declared, "Why dash it all, I know this chappie von Stalhein! I met him at a couple of parties in London before the war. But he wasn't a Hun then, by Jove. He called himself Count Stalek and said he was a Czech. He was always going on about how sick Hitler grabbing the Sudetenland made him."

"The spying hound," snorted Ginger in disgust.

Biggles shrugged. "If you take that attitude, our own careers wouldn't stand close investigation. After all, we may be going to Argentina as spies ourselves."

"Spying aside, von Stalhein is an absolute Nazi swine, Bertie," interjected Algy in a hard voice. "The last time we saw him was in Norway. He was going to have all three of us shot in cold blood, by a firing squad. Before that, we ran into him in Finland. He put a price on our heads - literally. Ginger heard him say he was willing to dispense with the bodies."

Biggles made a deprecatory gesture. "Why a swine?" he protested. "Be fair. You may not have realised it yet, but there's a war on! The man serves his country as we try to serve ours. As for that incident in Norway, I was wearing the uniform of a Boche officer and carrying a Gestapo pass at the time. Furthermore, I doubt that von Stalhein is a Nazi in any real sense. Primarily, he's a soldier and few soldiers have much time for politics. I think he would make no bones about being anything that suited him. At the moment it suits him to be a Nazi."

"Bah!" sneered Ginger. "You wouldn't make excuses for him if your family had been wiped out, like Tug Carrington and Henri Ducoste."

There was a brief and rather embarrassing silence. Biggles gazed through the window at the blue sky, drumming on his desk with his fingers, then picked up the telephone. "I had better let Raymond know straightaway that von Stalhein was floating around London just before the war. He may be interested," he announced crisply.

Biggles asked to be put through to Air Commodore Raymond as a matter of urgency. He spoke to him briefly, listened for a while, then hung up and turned to the others. "Raymond says that Intelligence are aware that von Stalhein was in London for a while before the war broke out, posing as a Czech refugee. They're not really sure what he was doing - possibly setting up bases for the transmission of intelligence information back to Germany. Raymond says that a while ago he cleaned up such a place not far away at East Weald, with the help of a bright young WAAF officer named Worralson. It was established before the war. Maybe von Stalhein was just sounding out how much support there was in England for war with Germany - although that's not his usual sort of job. Anyway, Bertie, Raymond would like a written report from you: where you saw von Stalhein, who he was friendly with - that sort of thing. Anyway, enough of this; let's go into lunch. We've work to do."