Chapter 6 - Pereira Makes his Move

During the week after their contact with the old widow, Worrals and Frecks continued to go sightseeing with apparent enthusiasm. Worrals, though, was acutely aware of the envelope in her handbag with its precious contents – she didn't dare leave it unprotected in the house. A few days before Christmas, Bill rang through with a pre-arranged call.

'Hi, Kid,' he greeted when Worrals answered.

'Don't call me kid,' she said automatically. 'You're a bit early for Christmas.'

'Wanted to be sure of getting through,' said Bill. 'Everyone rings on Christmas Day. Anyway I thought I'd let you know that your Aunt Edie's ill.'

'Oh,' said Worrals. 'Serious?'

'She was taken into hospital this morning. Heart attack. Doesn't look good.'

'You think I should come back?'

'Well, I know you planned to stay on over Christmas but . . .'

'No, no – I wouldn't enjoy it, knowing she's in danger. We'll come back tomorrow if we can get a flight.'

'Be good to see you. Let me know when you arrive and where. I'll meet you.'

'Thanks Bill, I'll phone from the airport in the morning. And thanks for ringing. I'd have been really upset if no-one had let me know.'

'Love you,' he said softly.

'You too,' she whispered and rang off. Frecks, listening intently, prepared to pack. Worrals' response of 'serious' was the indication that they were ready to move out. Any other reply and Bill would have downplayed Aunt Edie's condition to make it easier to stay on.

Worrals gave a sigh, appropriate for one who has had sad news about a loved one, always aware of possible listening devices in the house.

'Oh well,' she said, trying to convey a wan smile, 'we only had two slips left on the bus ticket anyway.'

Next morning they arose early. The lady who had rented the place to them came over to inspect the house and receive the keys. All was in order. Had she not been going on to Ribiera Grande before returning, she could have given them a lift. She could take them to a bus shelter at any rate – save them a walk with the cases.

Soon after she dropped them off, the bus arrived and they climbed on. It was only half full and they were able to sit together. The grumpy ticket inspector got on as usual and went his moody way down the aisle. Worrals handed him the ticket with its two journeys unclipped and was surprised when he scowled and looked at it intently. He checked in a pocket book and then clipped it and handed it back.

Receiving it, Worrals thought she could feel another slip of paper underneath. She pulled out a magazine and began to read, sliding the paper out in the process. It read, alarmingly, 'They're waiting for you. Get off at the stop after me.' Frecks gazed over and noted the message. Worrals crumpled it up in her hand and continued to read the magazine but her mind was racing. That their phone had been tapped was clear, for how else would it have been known that they were moving out and on this bus. Why were they suspected – she wasn't aware of any mistakes they had made. It must have been the Solomon Islander escaping. Their descriptions, or that of Frecks at least, must have been sent through.

There was a small town just before Ponta Delgado, on a steep hill. The inspector got off here and, dutifully, Worrals and Frecks followed suit soon after.

'Well,' said Frecks, settling herself glumly in the bus shelter, 'what now? Do we still go to the airport?'

'What else can we do? We can't go dodging the police here indefinitely. We may be able to bluff it out.'

She stood up and looked about her.

'Ah,' she said, 'just what we want. Our inspector friend must have known.'

'What can you see?' asked Frecks, joining her.

'Taxi service, a few doors away. Pick up your bags – we're on the move.'

The taxi man was polite and attentive and willing enough for Worrals to make her phone call, once a generous amount had been produced for the service. To her relief Worrals was able to get through and give her ETA and then added.

'It may be delayed, though. How's Aunt Edie?'

'Failing. Anyone you want to be remembered to?'

'Uncle Peter,' she began and then, with reckless urgency, 'da Silva of the Seven Cities.'

Peter da Silva of Setes Cidade, she thought, ringing off. He ought to get that. And he'll set the alarm bells going. Though I don't see how any of Raymond's back-up teams can help us here.'

'Right,' she said to Frecks. 'Let's go and face the music.'

They walked to the taxi.

Worrals was in something of a quandary, puzzling desperately as they neared the airport. She had no inclination to simply hand over the information they had come here to get but, if she hid it somewhere, she would have no opportunity to retrieve it. If she were searched, it would be impossible to conceal it for long and it would then be obvious that she was aware that she was taking out something she didn't want the authorities to know about. Then, if she did leave the envelope behind and there were no problems, what a fool she would feel and how Air Commodore Raymond's regard for them as female agents would fall. She assumed the bus inspector, obviously an agent, had correct information. The conundrum was insoluble so she simply did nothing, leaving the small precious cargo in her handbag, as she would do if she were innocent of its significance.

They arrived. Worrals paid off the taxi and looked around. There was a police presence but that was not unusual at an airport. No-one paid them any attention as they picked up their bags and joined the queue for the check-in. For a moment Worrals thought they might succeed as their turn came and they handed the girl behind the counter their air tickets and passports. She scrutinised them and then summoned a tall uniformed official.

'I'm sorry,' he said, having checked their documents, 'it has been necessary to transfer you to another flight. Please follow me.'

He and another man picked up their bags. Frecks and Worrals exchanged a worried frown and followed. As they anticipated, they were ushered into a separate office. Sitting behind a small desk was Captain Pereira. He beamed triumphantly at them.

'What is this?' demanded Worrals, determined not to be daunted. 'We were told we were reporting for another flight.'

'So you are,' said Pereira, 'in a smaller plane to a smaller island with fewer people. Far more convenient for asking the questions we want answered. Tell me, why did you not stay on the bus? We know you caught it.'

'We saw a taxi firm just before we arrived in Ponta Delgado,' Worrals answered glibly, having foreseen this enquiry. 'We thought it would be easier than trying to get a taxi in town.'

'Their bags,' snapped Pereira, not probing further for the moment. Worrals' heart sank as he opened her handbag and soon drew out the envelope.

'And what is this?'

'Letters from my boy-friend.'

'Ah, the faithful Bill,' Pereira sneered. 'I wonder who he really is.'

'He's Bill,' said Worrals, truthfully. 'But how would you know?'

'Strange love-letters he sends,' gloated Pereira, ignoring the question and drawing out the microfilm and the paper. 'You have saved us the search. Where did you get these?'

'Souvenirs,' bantered Worrals.

'Who gave them to you?'

'Why? What are they?'

'We shall find him, never fear.'

Not a muscle moved in Worrals' face but there was a tiny relief within her. Pereira's chauvinism seemed to have blinded him to the possibility that the agent they had met might be a woman. She said nothing.

'You will talk on the little island,' Pereira asserted. 'Nobody about, no escape – you will talk.' He nodded to himself with an unpleasantly confident self-satisfaction.

He stood up.

'Time to go,' he said. 'A pity you have not been able to ring your Bill today – he will be so worried.'

Again Worrals' heart gave a little leap. So the call from the taxi firm had gone untapped – by Pereira at least. Not that Bill or any reinforcements Raymond might have up his sleeve would be able to do anything on this tiny lump of rock they were headed for. But at least her sounding the alarm had gone unnoticed.

They were escorted out of the building and up to a little plane nearby. The engines had been started already – evidently their departure was to be without delay. Nevertheless, a delay there was, as unexpected as it was welcome.

The plane was a six-seater. Pereira planned to be beside the pilot; Frecks was ordered to sit immediately behind with Worrals in the third and back row. Two of Pereira's men, not in uniform, were to sit beside them. Worrals and Frecks had glumly taken their places and the men were about to join them, when there came an interruption. A police-officer, obviously high ranking, strode over and began to speak angrily to Pereira. Worrals strained to follow the exchange. From what she could gather, this was one of Pereira's superiors, who had evidently not been consulted about what was happening. He was older than Pereira, probably not far off retirement, but was still anxious to impose his authority. Before he gave his approval to the proceedings, he needed some facts.

'Evidence,' he was saying. 'Where is some evidence?'

'I have evidence,' said Pereira and then, to Worrals' surprise, since she had seen him place the envelope in his pocket earlier, he came over to the plane. She was even more astonished when he slid the envelope under the seat beside the pilot and turned back to argue again.

Suddenly it all became plain. Whilst Pereira was obviously working for da Silva, his superior was not. The evidence Pereira had would serve to incriminate da Silva and probably himself and was the last thing he would want his commander to see. With the other men hovering around the pair and the pilot leaning across to listen, Worrals whispered to Frecks.

'Move back.'

Frecks did so. The pilot did not notice.

'Now's our chance,' said Worrals. 'If I can get the pilot to leave the plane for a moment, you'll be able to fly off. It's all ready to go.'

'I can't leave you behind.'

'Yes, you can. It's vital we deliver this microfilm to Raymond. Who knows what lives may be saved by it? Pereira put it under the front seat. They obviously don't think enough of women to believe that we can fly. Let's prove them wrong.'

'I still don't like leaving you.'

'Things might not be so bad. The police chief doesn't think much of Pereira by the sound of it and is clearly not on de Silva's payroll. I'll get better treatment from him than Pereira. No more talking – it's our only chance. And call up Raymond's emergency frequency as soon as you're airborne.'

She could sense the persuasive tones of Pereira beginning to have effect as she went forward to the pilot, Frecks slipping into the seat behind him again.

'Too small,' Worrals wailed. 'The plane is too small. I am afraid.'

The pilot just laughed.

'No,' Worrals cried, becoming hysterical, 'I must get off.'

With that she began to scramble out of the aircraft. The pilot called out and, understandably, tried to stop her. She pulled him from the plane with her impetus and hit him with her handbag when he started to drag her back. She lashed out again, contriving to slam shut the door, and squirmed free, running towards the group, crying out to the police chief that she was innocent. The pilot followed and, for a crucial moment, there was no-one close to the plane. Frecks slipped into the pilot's seat, secured the seat belt and began to taxi, concentrating on the path to the runway but aware of the need to outstrip any of Pereira's men who, she was sure, would be chasing after her. Clearly she could not contact air traffic control and she was aware of the dangers of this kind of action with other aircraft likely to be landing at any moment. She tucked in behind a DC3 as it roared down the runway and, giving it some seconds to clear, headed off after it. As she did, she was conscious of a jeep heading at top speed towards her from her starboard side, attempting to cut her off. Determinedly she pulled back the throttle and closed her eyes, convinced that her last moment had come. She felt the plane lift and opened them again, snatching a quick look back. The jeep, full of uniformed men, had swerved violently to avoid her, its passengers deciding, sensibly, that to carry on would have been suicidal. Three of them had lost their hats in this manoeuvre, a circumstance that made her laugh briefly before she settled down on the long journey across nearly nine hundred miles of ocean to Gibraltar.

Her emotions were in a turmoil. There was elation that she had managed to escape in such a manner, and with the vital cargo still in her care but her overriding feeling was a sense of despair at having to leave Worrals behind. She doubted, in fact, whether she'd ever see her again. Whatever the senior policeman had thought before, he would be convinced of their guilt now. Meantime she wondered if she would be pursued. It reminded her of Worrals' other advice – to contact Raymond's listeners on their agreed wavelength – and this she now did.

To her joy there was a response, backed up by a code word, correctly answering the one she had given. Quickly she explained her position and her predicament and, once her message was received and understood, ceased to transmit, though she kept the frequency open in case whoever she had spoken to came back to her. Visibility was clear and, with a cloudless sky, flying conditions were excellent but that made it all the easier for her to be spotted if anyone did come after her. With this thought in mind, she had many glances at the sky behind her, squinting into the sun from which, her experience of war flying had taught her, any attack was likely to come.

She had been flying for over an hour and was beginning to think that she had really escaped, when one of her glances back took in a speck against the sun. She knew what that meant. She had been located by a pursuer and her little plane had no chance of out-running any military aircraft.

The radio crackled into life at this moment and she quickly reported the new development. She thought that the message she received was to 'hold on' but the reception was poor and, with the speck becoming larger by the second, she signed off to give the unwelcome arrival all of her attention.

Very early in her flight she had strapped on a life jacket and a parachute that she had found beneath the pilot's seat, preparing herself for emergency right from the start, and had placed the vital envelope inside her handbag, within reach. All the same, these were of very limited value if she came down in mid-Atlantic, she mused wryly.

The other plane was on her tail now and, judging to a nicety the moment its pilot would open fire, she suddenly banked to port,

Streaks of tracer marked where she had been. No doubt now about the other's intentions. She caught a quick glimpse of the aircraft as it flashed past, enough to make out that its markings were not Portuguese. That explained the delay in the attack. The plane had to be summoned up from elsewhere, not simply sent after her in an official pursuit. It all made no difference; the huge advantage in speed meant there could only be one end to such a contest.

She banked again. Once more the shells missed. Frecks was still trying to edge east as far as she could and, to her despair, noted another plane coming from that direction. Again her pursuer fired in vain. Perhaps these were warning shots, aimed at forcing her to turn back.

If this had been the intention, it quickly changed. The plane shuddered as she banked too late and some shots hit home. Instinctively she tried to duck, even though she knew how futile that was. Simultaneously the plane ahead of her opened fire but its shots went well above her.

Those that had hit had done some serious damage, though, both to her tail and her port wing, which was now in picturesque ruin and flames. Despite all her efforts, her plane began its inevitable descent and refused to respond to the controls. She could take no more evasive action now. Rather than suffer the impact of a crash landing in the sea, she leapt out, the handbag hanging ludicrously from her belt. She gazed up thankfully as the parachute responded to her pull, only to see something falling from the new aircraft immediately above her. She was a goner already, what was the point of bombing her?

Beneath her, the little plane continued its downward plunge. She followed its passage into the ocean, watching it breach the surface in a great explosion of spray, even as she cringed from what was falling from above. Nothing hit her, however, and she splashed down not far from the fallen aircraft, her inflated life-jacket giving her buoyancy as she freed herself from her chute, which floated inanely for a while like a huge white jellyfish.

Self preservation is a mighty spur and, despite the hopelessness of her position, she had begun to swim towards the plane, thinking that she might find something there to cling to, when a bulky object hit the ocean about fifty yards to her left. Her heart leapt as she realised that it was not a bomb that had been dropped over her but a dinghy. Changing course, she swam eagerly towards it and a minute or so later was clambering thankfully aboard; none too soon, she decided, noting an ominous fin lurking in the vicinity. Having detached and rolled up the dinghy's parachute and cover, she sank into the tiny vessel with an immense sigh of relief.

Looking around, she noted two paddles and even some water bottles. Perhaps her enemies wanted to keep her alive. She still had the handbag strapped on her belt, though to what purpose she was not clear, she thought wryly.

Only now did she pay attention to what was happening in the heavens. To her astonishment, an air combat was taking place, with the plane that had shot her down clearly being out-manoeuvred. Even as she watched, it broke off the engagement and, smoke pouring from its starboard engine, limped off back to the west. The victorious aircraft began to circle above her.

Noting that her own plane was still afloat on the calm surface, she paddled cautiously across to it, mindful of the problems it might cause her if it suddenly sank. The fire in the port wing had been extinguished and the wreckage lolled languidly at an angle, in no apparent hurry to disappear from view. In no mood to jettison her small kit unless she had to, Frecks paddled closer. Warily she pulled alongside and reached in to draw out the cases that were wedged against the instruments. She was able to retrieve both Worrals' and her own luggage before pulling away again. The situation was improving by the minute, she mused with mounting satisfaction.

Above her the plane that had saved her still circled around, protectively. He couldn't do that for long, she frowned; his fuel wouldn't last for ever. As she watched, it seemed to her that the noise of the aircraft was increasing. Snatching a glance to the east she spied, to her joy, an amphibian approaching and preparing to swish down beside her. It did this neatly, coming to rest only a hundred yards or so away. She paddled over and was soon being helped into the latest participant in this fluctuating drama by a smiling middle-aged man.

'Welcome aboard, lassie,' he said in an unmistakably Scottish accent. 'Sorry we couldna get here sooner but we hadna the legs of yon speed merchant overhead.'

They pulled in the dinghy and its cargo and took off.

'You'll be Miss Lovell, I'm thinking,' the man continued, handing her a huge towel as they sat behind the pilot. 'I'm Angus Mackail and the pilot is Tug Carrington, who has his own ideas about flying but has always managed to stay airborne so far.'

'I'm very grateful, Mr Mackail,' Frecks began, towelling vigorously.

'We'd prefer Angus and Tug.'

'I'm usually called Frecks.'

'There's a flask of tea back there when that Scotch Haggis gets round to it,' called a Cockney voice from in front of them. 'Sorry we didn't save your plane but I'm glad we were in time for you.'

'So am I,' said Frecks with feeling. She accepted the flask Angus handed to her and drank the warm liquid with relish. 'How do you come to be involved?' she asked between gulps.

'Biggles!' Tug said succinctly. 'We were in his squadron during the war.'

'And Air Commodore Raymond called us back to the colours,' added Angus. 'He'll be relieved to see you.'

'Is he in Gib.?'

Angus nodded.

'Worried stiff when the prisoner escaped and blew your cover. Had to be nearer to make all our lives a misery.'

'There's a wee place in the back where you can change,' he added. 'That's if the clothes in your case are still dry.'

An hour or so later, they landed at Gibraltar. The fighter-bomber accompanied them all the way and landed beside them. A tall blond man, also no longer young but clear eyed and a little severe, came across. He clicked his heels as Angus introduced him.

'One of our old opponents,' he said easily. 'Hauptmann von Zoyton, once an ace of the Luftwaffe, now a new ally. We had a rare time with him in the desert a while ago.'

'Thank you, Herr von Zoyton,' Frecks said formally. 'You saved my life.'

'I'm delighted to have done so, Fraulein,' Von Zoyton said. 'I am glad that I have not lost all my ability in the air, though had you not had the skill yourself to evade his early attacks, I would have been too late for you.'

'You two seem to be getting along just fine,' Angus assessed.

Frecks reported to the Air Commodore and explained what had happened, handing him the vital envelope, damped but not soaked, the handbag protecting it from the full impact of the sea.

'Excellent,' he breathed, studying its contents. 'Marvellous you were able to get through after we let you down so badly in England. Salvaged most of your own possessions too, I hear.'

'That was just luck,' said Frecks, but the euphoria of success was wearing off. When she went to bed that night in the comfort of a hotel, her mind was full of Worrals.