Chapter 14 – Lying In Wait

Biggles stepped out of the twin-engine police Merlin in the middle of New Zealand's South Island and shivered briefly in a biting wind. Distant peaks filled the horizon to the west with a wavy white. Though he had escaped from snow on the ground in England, it remained palpably in sight even in the antipodes.

'I thought you said it was going to be warm,' Ginger complained behind him. 'It's supposed to be summer.'

'It was, yesterday,' returned Biggles, a wry smile on his face. 'So this is what they mean by a Southerly.'

The airport was small but its terminal offered a cafeteria and soon they were fortifying themselves with hot drinks.

'Nice little airport,' observed Ginger, supplementing his tea with fruitcake, 'but who's this Richard Pearse that old chap thought we should be aware of?'

'Early aviator,' Biggles informed. 'Made one of the first ever flights in these parts about the same time as the Wright Brothers were getting airborne, possibly earlier, in fact. Flew over a couple of fields and landed ignominiously in a hedge by all accounts. That's probably why he's not better known. Didn't have full control. Still, if he got the machine up, that was a significant achievement in itself.'

'A bit far off the beaten track in those days, old boy,' contributed Bertie, fixing his monocle. 'Take a while for the news to trickle out and by that time the Wright Brothers' effort would have eclipsed it.'

'So, now we're here we wait,' said Ginger, pouring a second cup.

'That's about it,' Biggles agreed. 'Not for long, I hope.'

Algy had gone on to the Chatham Islands, it being felt that he had had the least direct contact with their adversaries and Biggles' presence there might be too noteworthy in such a small place. In the event the small population was already considerably augmented by other strangers, eager to fill their boats with crayfish and make a speedy fortune. His was not the only amphibian to settle on the large lagoon, then, and he was pleased that the Gadfly was not too conspicuous, though, as cover, a government survey team had accompanied him. They had accommodation provided but Algy preferred to sleep on board.

He had also brought a bicycle, suspecting that the island would boast no regular taxi services, and by this means made his way about the island. Waitangi itself was six or seven miles away but, with no schedule to meet, the trip was not onerous, though the settlement itself offered little more than a general store, a hotel and a post office. The monthly boat from New Zealand steamed into the tiny port as he watched and bagfuls of bulky mail that could not be accommodated by the weekly plane were brought ashore. There was a smart new fishing boat as deck cargo. Algy commented on it as one of the crew jumped ashore and came by him.

'Trim looking craft,' he remarked.

'Aye,' the sailor agreed, his accent hinting at a distant Scottish heritage. 'And a proud owner gazing down.'

Algy noted an anxious figure on the bridge. The man beside him chuckled.

'He's barely moved from that spot the whole voyage,' he revealed. 'We've had a calm enough passage but you'd have thought it was liable to be washed overboard at any second the way he's watched over it.'

'You take passengers then,' said Algy.

'Aye, we do. You must be a stranger if you need to ask.'

'I am.'

'No women, mind. Just the one cabin. And not so full these days when there's money aplenty with the crays.'

'It can be a heavy trip at times, I assume.'

'Aye it can that. And who's going to spend two days on a boat when the plane's only a couple of hours?'

'Not me,' agreed Algy. 'You'll be free of human cargo going back then.'

'Just one. A Dane by all accounts,' was the unexpected answer. 'I hope he speaks the language.'

He went on by. Algy walked away from the wharf and along the winding swathes of beach, ascending after a while to sit among the sand dunes and enjoy the bar of chocolate he had bought earlier. Looking back he could still discern the ship and was interested to note the new fishing boat being lowered and launched. Evidently its owner, already restless at the two day delay to the voyage's beginning, had decided not to wait two days more for his purchase to be delivered at his front door but was preparing to sail it round himself.

The village hall boasted a film that evening, presumably arrived off the boat. Algy joined a large and noisy audience, which enjoyed the western they were offered, even though it was at least ten years old. No grand premieres here, he thought with a smile. He helped the caretaker and his son clear up afterwards, chatting easily to them about the number of visitors there were at the moment, himself included. The bike ride back afterwards in the dark was not an unpleasant prospect on a mild night but the mildness had rain attached and he was relieved when a small truck overtook him and stopped.

'A bit wet for a push-bike,' a voice called out to him. 'How far do you have to go.'

'The flying-boat berth,' Algy told him.

'Put your bike on the back and jump in,' the driver invited. 'I'll be going past there.'

'Thanks.'

The rain became heavy as they drove away.

'Every day a rainfall,' said his rescuer, tall and thickset and wearing a warm black jersey to complement a generous beard.

'So I've noticed.'

'Are you a pilot then?'

'Yes. I'm with the survey team. Do you live here?'

The man nodded.

'I've a cottage just beyond the airfield.' He smiled. 'We call it an international airport,' he added. 'Two planes a week these days. It used to be just the flying boat and the ship.'

'One man and his boat this time.'

The driver chuckled.

'That'll be Harry Peters. A neighbour of mine.'

'Good English name,' Algy observed, recalling Cub's experience.

'Some Danish there too, I think. He'll have been anxious to get home with the shipdelayed and a relative arrived off the plane.'

'From Denmark?'

'Maybe. My wife has a way of nosing out things. Nothing's secret on a small island like this.'

He said no more and Algy was hesitant to probe, fearing that any further interest on his part might be passed on and alert Pedersen, if it was him, that the Air Police were on his trail. As it was, giving a lift to a strange man on a bicycle headed for a plane could well be reported to this curious wife and be passed on to the wrong quarters. He was relieved when the time came for him to be dropped off and he could thank and farewell his new acquaintance.

Back on the aircraft he made himself some supper and settled down to consider what he had learnt. If the relative was Pedersen and he was the man booked to go back, then it looked as if this was not the place for the meeting and the Dane was en route to somewhere else. In which case the others would not be coming here at all. He gazed at the photographs he had been given once more and sipped his coffee while he ensured that he would recognise at a glance any of the men whose features appeared before him.

After a while he arose, feeling he should do more before he merited rest. The rising moon gave some light and he debated whether to take the motorised dinghy around the north part of the island or use the bicycle again. The latter had the virtue of noiselessness and he was soon back on the road, finding the moonlight sufficient for progress without needing to reveal his presence by using his lamp. The raised trucks that went to and from the airport used a causeway across the lagoon that cut the journey in half but Algy was committed to the long way round. He was not even sure where it was he wanted to go; it was just an instinctive feeling that something was due to happen that night that involved Pedersen.

It took an hour or more to reach the northern settlement. What was he looking for? He didn't know. Perched above the shore in a chilling night, he stared around and at the sea for some time. After a while he thought he could see a boat coming towards the land but it had no lights so at first he couldn't be sure. Returning to the road, he cycled off in the direction the craft was heading. Soon he came to a track leading down to the shore and turned down it.

It was wide enough for a vehicle and he had no trouble making his way down. There was a building at its foot and, leaving his bicycle behind a stubbornly high clump of grass, he edged forward cautiously.

He could hear the boat's motor now and was aware of a slender light ahead, obviously guiding the vessel in. Concentrating on its approach and noting that there was a smaller boat behind it, he missed his footing and skidded on his back for some yards. Simultaneously he heard the noise of a vehicle further up the track and rolled himself over to the side and into a dip in the dune. This was in fact steeper than he had anticipated and his momentum took him right down the slope, bringing him up with a thump against the rear of the building. A truck came past, operating on sidelights only. Lighting was very low key here, Algy mused; unnecessary if the fishing boat had merely been fishing. He lay still for a second, concerned that his sudden descent might have been heard but the noise of the vehicle had obviously covered that.

It was the new boat, he noted with satisfaction, watching it berth. A group of men followed from the smaller vessel and were soon unloading crates and packing cases that, from their efforts, were both awkward and heavy. These they were bringing into the building.

Trying to manoeuvre himself into a better position Algy felt his legs slip again and felt himself sliding under the building. In fact a recent slip had had the effect of loosening the planks at the foot of the shed and Algy found that, by wriggling on his back, he could just squeeze himself through the gap this had created and into what was evidently a boathouse.

He found himself behind a pile of old sacks and raised his head cautiously. There was a light on in the shed but it was not a strong one and his corner was all in shadow.

Looking more carefully he noted that the crates were being loaded on to what must be Peters' old fishing-boat, now settled on a trailer, ready for its last voyage as cargo to New Zealand. It looked as if the cargo would now itself be carrying cargo, doubtless to be kept out of sight. Algy could hear the odd snatch of conversation and was able to recognise some of it as being in Russian. What did those crates contain? And why were the containers so many shapes and sizes, some being almost as long as the fishing boat, which only just accommodated them. It had to be something heavy from the number of men it took to transfer them; ten at least, who would presumably be returning to their mother ship by way of the launch when this was finished. He had spotted a whaler from the air on his outward flight, a Russian one his companions had thought, which would be a likely candidate.

Now a new language was being spoken, probably Danish, since it sounded Scandinavian to Algy's alert ears. He recognised Pedersen, standing by one of the crates and complaining. It had been damaged in some way so that its lid would not properly close. Still arguing the men left to consult with the truck driver outside.

The crate was a mere ten yards away from where Algy crouched and the opportunity to investigate was too good to miss. Instantly he went over and lifted the battered lid. What he saw inside astounded him.

It was an aircraft engine – a jet.

So stunned was he that he failed to notice that others were entering until it was too late. For a long second he felt sure his temerity had led to him being captured and inwardly cursed his carelessness, but the sailors were busy with their task of lifting their loads into the boat by means of a makeshift pulley. Though they clearly saw him, they paid him no special attention, obviously assuming that he was part of Pedersen's shore party. Algy nodded approval at them and strode around the other side of the boat, ostensibly to regard operations from this new position but actually anxious to have the bulk of the vessel between him and anyone else who might enter.

He was only just in time for Pedersen's voice sounded again. Algy faded into the corner and sank down behind a huge chest. If the sailors noted his absence they made no comment but he realised that there was no reason why they should, their duty being simply to obey orders. The offending crate having been properly sealed and loaded, a tarpaulin was draped and secured over the deck section of the boat, hiding its new contents. The truck was backed in, hooked up and driven slowly off. The light was extinguished and the door closed.

Algy flicked on his torch and returned to the opening, pushing his way back through the sand and outside once more. He waited for the truck with its heavy load to struggle up the slope to the road and for the Land Rover that followed it. The noises died away and the night was silent again, apart from the still receding purr of the departing launch. Relieved to find his bicycle where he had left it, Algy pedalled away, thinking hard. Clearly Pedersen was transporting the parts of a jet aircraft, almost certainly a fighter, since it could be nothing larger.

The first signs of an early dawn were streaking the sky as he wearily stepped aboard the Gadfly again. Though there was much to ponder on, he was soon asleep.

Ginger was brewing tea in the motel they had booked when Biggles returned from the airport with Algy's news.

'Still on the move, then,' he commented, preparing the cups. 'Any sign of the others?'

'Marcel confirms that the Sevins have arrived in New Caledonia, and Villiers-Silver was last reported in Vancouver.'

'What about da Silva?'

'All we know there is that he has left his Azores haunts. Timor is the closest Portuguese territory he could make for.'

'And with jolly old Prospero ensconced in the Solomons,' contributed Bertie, looking up from his browse of the local paper in an arm chair, 'they could be all around New Zealand, waiting to close in.'

'What do we do?' enquired Ginger, handing Biggles a cup.

'Stay put. At least we can keep an eye on Pedersen now. He should lead us to the others. And since his ship is headed for Lyttelton, we may find he's coming this way. But these aircraft parts are a puzzle.'

Smyth arrived bearing shopping and news.

'They're getting closer,' he announced. 'Sidlington's in Sydney.'

'How do you know that?' asked Biggles.

'Australian police rang through to the police here. Immigration tipped them off. He's booked to fly into Wellington tomorrow.'

'Now, that is news,' Biggles exclaimed, punching his palm. 'If only we can keep tabs on them all once they arrive.'

In the event the shadowing operation was accomplished more easily than had been envisaged, possibly because it was clear that da Silva was still not aware that his precious plans and codes had been microfilmed and Pedersen did not realise that his identity as Jens' informant was known. The Sevins had flown into Auckland by way of Fiji, presumably to throw any French observers off the track. From there they headed south by rail on the ill-named overnight express to Wellington, which gave them twelve hours of fitful sleep as it wound its way around volcanoes in the night. Copper, also on the train, stayed awake to ensure they didn't depart on the way; a decision which bore fruit, since, bleary-eyed, he was alert to the couple alighting some thirty miles or so short of the capital. A car was awaiting them and, though Copper was able to hire a hopeful taxi, he lost them on their way towards the sea. The settlement was strung out beside a long beach but an airfield prevented it progressing deep inland. Disgruntled he returned to the station and rang through to report to Biggles.

Biggles took the call shortly before heading off to the airport, leaving Ginger at the motel to answer the phone. There was no particular plan in this other than being available to be airborne in a hurry if required, a possibility rather than any expectation. Consequently the morning was a leisurely affair and, with Bertie, he was enjoying a mid-morning snack when a light aircraft landed close to the terminal and its pilot jumped out. Suddenly Bertie stiffened.

'I say, old boy,' he said. 'That pilot reminds me of someone. In fact he's the bounder who flew the plane that your would-be assassins escaped in.'

'Best keep your head down,' advised Biggles. 'He's coming in.'

The man entered but made for the other side of the terminal while Bertie steadfastly kept his back to him. After talking to an official for a moment the man returned to his plane and began to taxi away.

'Refuelling probably,' Biggles assessed.

Smyth, who had been making a final check of the Merlin, joined them.

'Aircraft's ready whenever you need her,' he reported.

'Good,' said Biggles. 'We may be taking off very soon. That lone aviator who's just been in may be worth following.'

'He isn't alone,' Smyth contributed. 'I spotted a couple of passengers aboard - a man and a woman. Funny they didn't come in here for a break while he's topping up.'

'Yes, that is strange,' Biggles considered. 'By thunder,' he added quickly. 'I wonder if it could be the Sevins. Copper said there was an airfield near to where he lost them. The timing's right for a flight from there, too. That would explain why they haven't left the plane: they don't want to be seen. Sharp work Smyth.'

He stood up.

'It might be an idea to see just where that aircraft goes,' he decided. 'You come with me, Bertie. We may need to use the camera.'

They took off immediately, heading north initially but swinging east and gaining height so that, by the time the other plane was roaring down the runway, Biggles had taken up the classical air combat position, with the sun behind him. The other pilot would have to squint if he was to see him, assuming he was that alert, which Biggles doubted. There was certainly no evidence of his presence being suspected as the other plane flew west towards the Southern Alps, though never at an altitude that suggested it would fly over them.

Sure enough, less than half-an-hour later, Biggles noted the aircraft preparing to land on a makeshift runway in a field behind a collection of buildings just before a tiny town. Bertie was busy with the camera and then, having fixed the spot and located it on a map, they flew back.

'It's on a kind of plateau before you get to the mountains,' Biggles told the others, once they were all back in their motel, poring over newly developed and blown-up photographs. 'That's a fairly mainish road the place is near. We ought to be able to drive past without being noticed so I've given Steeley the gen and he's on his way there now.'

'What are these buildings here, close up to where the mountains begin?' queried Ginger. 'Barns presumably but they're pretty extensive ones.'

'There's some sort of road leading to them, too,' Biggles noted, peering through his magnifying glass. 'Clear vehicle tracks at any rate – in fact there's one in the picture. A lorry of some sort I think – too large for a Land Rover.'

'So what's this place supposed to be, old boy?' put in Bertie. 'Farm of some kind?'

'There's some livestock grazing, certainly, especially in the fields nearest to the road, but nothing evident closer to the barns. Be good to know what's in those.'

Steeley rang through some hours later.

'Apparently it's a motel,' Biggles informed the others after he had hung up. 'That's what the sign up at the road says. No vacancies, Steeley reported. The farm's obviously behind it. There's a village nearby; three or four hundred people, he thought. A few shops though and a tea-rooms. A coach pulled up for a refreshment stop while he was there. There's also a hotel you can stay at, though not many people do, apparently. Makes it all the more strange that the motel's booked out.'

'Unless it's all cleared for the arrival of our merry men,' said Bertie.

'Precisely. Now I wonder how we're going to get closer.'

'Are you going to send Marie in?' asked Ginger.

'I don't like it,' Biggles frowned, 'but it might be the only way.'

Next day he went on a visit to the local art gallery, walking from the motel on a long mazy route, alert to anyone shadowing him. Long experience had honed his instincts to note any suspicious signs but, when he was satisfied that this was not the case, he went in. The building was an old converted house, left to the city by an art-inclined benefactor, and he made his way up a staircase to one of the smaller rooms. Here a slender figure, her greying hair neatly framing her face, stood absorbed in a modern abstract. With no-one else around, Biggles walked straight up to her.

'A nice picture, Fraulein,' he said.

She turned and embraced him.

'My Beegles!' she said. 'Do I have my marching orders?'

'Only if you promise to be very careful. I've been against using you from the start for fear of something happening to you. I couldn't bear that after all those long years apart.'

She laughed.

'Be careful, he says. My whole background is one of spying, remember. Now, where is it I have to go?'

He told her.

'Aim to arrive just before midday,' he advised. 'The bus from Christchurch should be there about then and you can mingle with all the passengers having hasty refreshments in the tea-rooms.'

She nodded and kissed him.

'But you must be careful, too,' she whispered. 'You have been their target before. They know you: they don't know me. I'm just a tourist from Europe, finding some peace and tranquility in my old age traveling around this lovely country. Is it a pleasant spot?'

'Very pleasant, apparently.'

'Then there is every excuse for me to stay there a few days.'

Businesslike, she patted his cheek, kissed him once more and descended the stairs, leaving Biggles to spend a respectable period with the paintings.

'What do we do about this strange cargo Pedersen's bringing with him?' Ginger asked when Biggles returned. 'We could have the ship searched at Lyttelton.'

'I was wondering about that on the way back,' Biggles admitted, drawing on a cigarette. 'That might secure one of the hierarchy but it would alert the others. And what could we prove about his intentions? He might claim he's bringing it in for an air display or a museum or a private collection or something. No certainty of a conviction. And we'd have shown our hand for nothing. But what the deuce can he want it for?'

'A decko inside that long barn might be instructive,' suggested Bertie.

'Agreed – but how do we do that? You need search warrants here as well as at home and you may be sure they'll have it well guarded if there is anything going on.'

'Let's hope Marie can uncover something,' said Ginger.

'We'll need to keep a close eye on this motel-cum-farm-cum-airfield,' decided Biggles. 'I'm meeting an inspector this afternoon to discuss the situation. Maybe the local police can come up with some ideas.'

There were many eyes at Lyttelton Harbour to note the arrival of the ship from the Chatham Islands. Algy had observed its departure from Waitangi, noting the old fishing-boat on its deck and aware of what it carried out of sight beneath the taut tarpaulin. A day later he flew back, leaving the survey team behind for a further week and arranging with a regular government pilot to fetch them later.

There was a car waiting to receive Pedersen and a lorry for his excess baggage, which, once loaded, was secreted beneath a high hood so that its nature was not evident. Then, the car in attendance, the lorry drove off. Steeley, watching it with unobtrusive interest, wandered back into the town and phoned Biggles.

'Heading south, as we thought,' Biggles told the others a little later on as further calls came through to the motel from police observers. 'And I think we know where to.'

'Maybe that big barn's where they put the bally thing together,' voiced Bertie.

'You could be right,' Biggles said. 'Let's have a look at those photographs again. How far would you say those barns are from the road and the village?'

'Quite a distance,' Ginger answered. 'Four or five miles, perhaps.'

'Far enough away for any undue noise to pass unheard,' said Biggles, thoughtfully. 'I wonder if this is the only aircraft they've smuggled in. We know there have been a number of big lorries making their way along that track recently.'

'Strange preparations for a meeting, old boy,' breathed Bertie.

'More than a meeting,' asserted Biggles. 'A jet fighter, if it is one, has only one function – to shoot down another plane. The Ides of March,' he muttered, almost to himself. 'A date associated with assassination. We've identified our conspirators: Cassius, Brutus and the rest. There must be a Caesar in the offing – but where, and who?'